


Red Sands

by kristen999



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Drama, Friendship, Gen, Survival, hurt comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-13 20:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 118,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5716741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristen999/pseuds/kristen999
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stranded on a harsh, desolate world, John and Ronon learn that merely surviving is only half the fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this 2010, but never posted it here. I'm going to try to put the rest up this weekend. 
> 
> This was a giant John and Ronon epic that took a year to write. I've always wanted do write a layered psychological study of both characters. Thank you to d_odyssey for her amazing support and advice. Also a big thank you to my awesome betas wildcat88 and everybetty for their time, patience, and bucket-loads of red ink. It was their honesty and willingness to tear this story apart that allowed it to finally come together.

* * *

The thrum of the transport ship's engines vibrated up the steel walls and through the floor of the eight by eight meter cells where prisoners were kept in separate, darkened holding areas. Meals were bowls of gruel and cups of water, no utensils, since those could be fashioned into a weapon, and served in total blackness. 

Ronon massaged his wrists where the manacles had rubbed the skin raw and tested the strength of the chain hooked to his ankle while imagining wrapping it around the windpipe of a guard. 

He had the layout of the ship memorized. Down, right, another right, left, then out the back. Guards changed shifts every nine hours and the fourth door on the second right turn was the armory. There were six prisoners, including him and Sheppard, and only ten other people on board. Escape wouldn't be too hard if the timing was right and they had the element of surprise. Planning it would be simple; their captors had locked his team leader in the cell next to him. McKay had taught him Morse code the year before so he and Sheppard tapped on the walls twice a day to check up on each other.

Ronon squeezed his eyes shut in frustration, fighting the urge to bang the back of his head against the bulkhead. They had all the pieces to make an escape but he had misjudged the force of the explosion and it had really done a number on his right leg. It throbbed relentlessly below the knee, broken, he'd known even before the prison doc had reset it. 

It didn't matter. He and Sheppard knew there'd be no escape. They'd accepted the consequences of their actions when they were caught. 

The Saurin were arrogant assholes. Their medicine and technological gadgets were superior to most of Pegasus, including Atlantis. Too bad prisoners were considered too low to waste resources on. 

The normal ship’s hum shifted pitch, instantly alerting him to the change. They powered down for the first time in three days which probably meant they had arrived at their destination. He listened to the _tap, tap, tap_ beside him and rapped his knuckles back.

The door slid open, blinding him with bright outside light, three guards jerking him to his feet while he was disoriented. “Prisoner 54437, you will stand and follow us without resistance. Disobedience will be met with severe consequences.”

He _wanted_ to disobey, _wanted_ to fight and punch and run. Instead he bit his bottom lip to keep from screaming. Pain shot through his leg, both knees buckling. Ronon clung to the fire, preferring the agony to the humiliation of sagging in the grip of the enemy. His ears perked up as two other guards spat their resistance _dreck_ to Sheppard, but the escorts had pushed Ronon out of the hall and into another room by the time they dragged Sheppard out.

Smart move keeping them away from each other. He grunted, anger rising in sync with his spinning head. Run! his mind screamed. Break their necks and get out.

“This is your issued gear. Do not lose it if you want to survive,” a guard said, slipping a bag around Ronon’s neck.

Then he was shoved hard into a tiny room the size of a cage. “No!” The doors closed and the floor disappeared from below his feet. There was nothing but air, the ground rushing up too fast to prepare for the fall.

There was a crunch, white starbursts, and his breath was knocked out of his lungs. Intense sunlight scorched his retinas before he could slam his eyelids closed to protect his sight. He honed in on the sounds around him: curses in varying accents, moans and the sounds of flesh impacting solid ground. He noticed approaching footsteps in the distance, at least a dozen unknowns taking advantage of the chaotic 'dump and run', and estimated where the other prisoners were in relation to those closing in. 

Splitting his attention wasn't difficult; planning a means of attack was second nature, but not his main priority. Finding Sheppard was. Even blind, Ronon could detect his friend’s breathing pattern or tread on any terrain-- _there_ \--six meters on his right side; he recognized those boots.

“Sheppard.”

“Ronon?”

“Over here!” Ronon shouted, tracking his team leader's movements. Shielding his eyes, he squinted against the oppressive glare. “John!” he yelled when a blurry Sheppard-like shape was about to pass by him.

“There you are,” Sheppard panted, kneeling down. “You okay?”

Ronon snorted, ignoring the question. “We're about to have company.”

Right on cue, rough hands grabbed his wrists, but he twisted free, punching the nearest person. 

“Freza! Help me with this guy!”

More fingers were on him, pushing his face down into the ground; hot sand scraped his cheek. Weakened by his impaired movements and the agony of his leg, Ronon's hands were quickly and too easily bound behind his back.

“His friend just broke my nose!”

“What? You can't handle him?”

Voices blurred in and out as he rolled onto his back. Someone blew fine powder in his face, blinding him at first. Within seconds, he started feeling its effects. Sheppard was wrestled to the ground next to him, taking a vicious shot to temple.

“Hey! You know the rules. No kicks to the head! You'll addle his brains.”

“Not too badly,” the voice laughed.

Ronon could only snarl, his limbs tingling and twitching uselessly. The throbbing in his leg became a distant memory and all his muscles relaxed as whatever the dust had contained continued to assault his system. 

“Alright, let's line 'em up.”

All the fight leaked out of Ronon's pores and he melted against the same hands that had subdued him, the simmering heat of the planet baking into his skin. 

“What's the count?”

“Only six.”

“Let's hope they're useful.”

“If not, we'll give them to the Shan'ka and get their worth in water.”

Ronon fought to stay awake, but staying alert for three nights on the ship had stolen his reserves and a drugged, sweet warmth lulled him into an overdue sleep.

* * *

His nasal passages burned with chemicals, sending his lungs into spasms and watering his eyes. Awareness jerked him out of his stupor and Ronon tried sitting up without success. Waves of severe lightheadedness swept over him and it took several seconds to orient himself.

“Got this one awake,” a voice said, moving away.

It took several minutes for Ronon to get acclimated, the dizziness slowly dissipating. The rope restraining his hands wasn't very thick and he began working on the weak spots, flexing his wrists. They were under a tarp – crude poles held up the middle and the front two corners; the rest of the material hung loosely at the sides like a floppy tent. A guy walked by, passing a foul burning stick under the nose of each prisoner to rouse them, stopping at Sheppard's slumped form. Sheppard snapped his head up, but blood matted his hairline and he started to sag.

Over a dozen ragtag men huddled tightly under the flimsy tent, several using their arms to hold the material above them. It was painfully bright and Ronon kept his head low as he stared at all the gathered badly worn, handmade shoes. His nostrils flared at the overwhelming odor of so many unwashed bodies.

He cursed his lack of coordination, the dust still numbing all sensation including his busted leg. Sheppard was at least more alert now, trying to shake off the effects of being hit in the head, his shoulders tensing as he tested his bonds. The two of them communicated without talking.

_Can't get loose._

_Hold off til we know what's going on._

Ronon lolled his head, signaling that he'd take Sheppard's lead.

“Where the hell are we?” one of the prisoners demanded. “Who the fuck are you people?” It was the voice from the third cell on the ship, a guy who’d never stopped pissing and moaning about being detained illegally.

A figure emerged from the group, kneeling down for a cursory look at them. He wore a tan piece of cloth that fell loosely around his head on all sides, a thin rope holding it in place around his forehead. He peeled back the flap, revealing a face covered by several inches of long, dark braided beard. A red painted stripe ran down his deeply tanned brow and over his nose; tattooed lines ran across his cheeks. His broader shoulders and larger frame spoke of better health. “I am Kadar of the Spraza. I found you first and by our rules, I invoke my claim on your lives.”

The prisoners exploded into outrage, many struggling to their feet and failing. The loudmouth from earlier even spat in the face of their captor. “This is an outrage! Do you know who I am? I belong to no one.”

Kadar ran a hand across his upper lip, sucking at the spittle gathered at the fingertip. “You will learn about the rules against waste.”

Ronon remained on his side, studying the leader who looked the same as many desert people except maybe a little poorer. The man's robe had been sewn together from various pieces of faded and dirty cream cloth that covered him all the way to his ankles. Long sleeves were stitched of mismatched fabrics and _almost_ hid a primitive knife secured at his left wrist. His shoes were made of brown scaly animal skin and dark-tinted goggles hung around his neck and those of his men. 

“You are imprisoned on Medena. For whatever reason, I do not care. Your past means nothing, so do not cling to it.” Kadar stood up, pale blue eyes studying each prisoner. “We've given you something to keep you docile while we inspect your value. It will wear off soon. Be still and we will be quick. If you bite any of us, we will cut out your tongue.”

Suddenly hands were on Ronon's face, fingers prodding his head, pulling on his eyelids. He twisted away, echoing the swearing around him. 

“Stay put,” one of his captors snapped, checking him over for injury. When dusty fingers touched his leg, Ronon jackknifed. “Ach, this looks bad,” the man mumbled, pressing on the bone. Ronon couldn't hold onto the scream building in his throat.

“Leave him alone!” Sheppard yelled.

Ronon writhed back and forth as the man examining his leg bent it in ways it refused. Sheppard broke free of his captors after the second scream and unwisely tackled the guy. Two desert people yanked Sheppard away, pinning both shoulders down and trapping his bound hands to the ground. 

“Told you this one was trouble,” one of the men said, stepping on Sheppard's chest with a foot. 

“Enough!” Kadar snarled. “You use up valuable energy.”

The three men backed away and Sheppard scrambled into a sitting position, his uniform and BDUs covered in orange-brown dust. Breathing heavily, he squinted up at the leader. “What do you want?”

“Allegiance.”

“You know, there are better ways of asking,” Sheppard huffed.

“Ask?” Kadar leaned closer. Sheppard locked eyes with him in defiance; a bead of perspiration rolled down his temple. Kadar traced the trail of sweat on Sheppard's skin, grabbing his chin in a steel grip. “You will give me your obedience, or you will die.”

Ronon tensed. His team leader remained silently obstinate. 

Obviously not used to rejection, Kadar squeezed Sheppard's jaw painfully before rising. “Medena,” he said, spreading his arms to encompass the desert. “She will kill you. As she has done to thousands. There is only death and we offer you life.”

“How?” a beefy convict asked.

“We control most of the water. Without it, you will die and your body given to the rest of the Spraza.” Kadar threw his arms around the shoulders of his men. “We outnumber all other prisoners. When we all arrived here we were individuals, scattered and weak. Now we are one. Strong and powerful. We offer you protection, barter deals for food, shelter, and clothes.”

“In exchange for what?” 

Ronon recognized the shrill voice from the cell across from him on the ship. It issued from a skinny thing with long, black hair. 

Kadar smiled. “You will follow my every order and pledge half of all the water we gain in our raids.”

“Half?”

“What water?”

“Where is everyone else?”

“All in good time. Those who sentenced you to this hole gave everyone two very important items in your packs to ease their consciences.” He laughed bitterly, clasping his hands together. “The _topra_ should be wearing off enough to discuss things further. Once you join us, you will be allowed to move about freely.” Kadar nodded to his men. “But first, you will have to give up something as a sign of loyalty.” He snapped his fingers and the one who’d tussled with Sheppard stepped forward. “Rull will collect the offers.”

Rull had to be the right-hand man; the man's face was streaked with red paint as well, his recently smashed nose a swollen lump between his eyes. Tattered fabric from his desert headgear dangled in worn bits over his brow. He and three other men took items from the prisoners who pretended they had a choice with their hands tied behind their backs. The rest of the beanpole Spraza played their role of guards, watching and waiting for signs of trouble.

Kadar stepped over to Sheppard. “You will give me your boots,” he said, crouching and admiring the tough black leather. “Very fine and rugged. They'll fit nicely.”

“Sorry, don't recall saying you could have them,” Sheppard shot back.

“You must be used to giving orders, but that will change.” Kadar looked over at Ronon. “And you--”

“I'm not giving you anything,” Ronon growled.

Four Spraza encircled them. Their skin stretched like leather across their faces and they sported matching tattoos over hollow cheeks and under sunken eyes. Kadar had a good game plan, using strength in numbers, if the rest of the inhabitants of the planet were all in this shape. 

“You have a broken leg, my big friend. You cannot join us. It is a great loss. A man of such strength would have made a great enforcer.” Kadar gestured at Sheppard. “Bring him. He'll realize that he belongs to us.”

“Hang on,” Sheppard said in alarm. “What about Ronon?”

Kadar held up his hand, his men pausing and waited until he had the attention of the rest of the group. “It is the rule of Medena. If you're not of able body then you cannot go to waste. His water will go to the Shan'ka.”

Ronon's attentions were torn between the men surrounding him and those about to haul Sheppard away. Frustration boiled over when he became unbalanced by his bound hands and injured leg. 

“Look, I'll pledge to you whatever you want. I'll give you my boots, but Ronon comes with me. We're a package deal,” Sheppard offered, eyes darting over the sea of dusky faces.

“You do what I say!” Kadar hissed, grabbing Sheppard by the collar. “I am in control here.”

Sheppard used the only weapon he had available, smacking his skull into the man's face, then his hands came out of nowhere, elbowing the two men behind him while Kadar reached for his hidden weapon. 

“Knife!” Ronon yelled in warning, throwing himself in front of another Spraza and tripping him.

Sheppard grabbed Kadar's wrist, twisting it at a sharp angle until he dropped the blade. Rull snatched the knife where it fell just as Sheppard spun Kadar around and locked his head in a choke hold. 

“Back away or I'll break his neck,” Sheppard ordered.

All the Spraza froze, too unsure about what to do. The other prisoners seemed just as confused, the shift in power throwing things into chaos. Ronon grinned wolfishly at his CO's actions, but he was incapable of standing, his leg an electric bolt of pain that ran down to his ankle. Rull inched closer to Sheppard and his hostage with a manic glint in his eye.

Kadar snorted, noticing the glee. “Do something foolish, Rull, and see if you're able to control the whole gang. Or do you think you have the _nunkas_ to deal with the Shan'ka?”

Rull gripped the weapon tighter, clearly at odds with himself. At a closer glance, Ronon could see that the knife was actually made from a piece of sharpened bone, the handle wrapped with the same scaly skin as Kadar's shoes. Ronon finally broke through the frayed ends of his ropes, releasing his burning wrists. Reaching into his dreads, he brought out a metal knife, attracting the attention of those around him and putting Rull on edge. 

“Tell everyone to just back away and go to their homes or wherever you guys came from. After they're at a safe distance we'll all go our separate ways,” Sheppard reasoned.

“The Shan'ka don't allow murder, stranger,” one of the Spraza warned. “You will suffer greatly if you spill valuable blood.”

“I'll let him go unharmed once you go. All I want to do is to leave.” Sheppard adjusted his grip, speaking in Kadar's ear. “Deal?”

“I will stay behind to escort you back,” Rull insisted. 

Ronon kept his eye on Rull, the man's twitchy movements setting off alarms. The guy was an opportunist, trying to climb higher on the food chain. He was as big as Kadar, both men the size of Sheppard; both looked like they ate more than one square a day compared to the others.

“Go. We must welcome our newest members,” Kadar ordered his men. “Don't worry. The sun will light our enemies on fire with her rays and give us our revenge.”

The rest of the gang dispersed; a few remained until Kadar glared at them. Sheppard kept the guy's head immobile while his men became distant spots in the harsh backdrop of the desert.

“We will kill you, of course, if the heat doesn't,” Kadar threatened.

“Maybe. But no one's gonna die today,” Sheppard replied. “Wanna put that knife away?” he suggested to Rull.

The man sheathed the weapon in the waistband of his pants, wrapping a layer of dirty cloth around his face and adjusting his goggles. “I look forward to drinking your life.”

Sheppard gestured for the guy to start walking then shoved Kadar forward. The leader didn't give him a second glance, talking instead to his second in command. “Hand it over.”

“It'll cost you a _dunka_ of water,” Rull replied.

“Do not barter with me, fool. You cannot make a finder's claim on something I own.”

The two men disappeared into the whiteness of desert light. Ronon tried to hobble up, and Sheppard was instantly at his side to shoulder his weight. “We better get a move on before they come back.”

“You should’ve gone with them,” Ronon chastised, even knowing Sheppard wouldn't have.

“Don't think I'd fit in very well. Kind of used to being the leader and all.”

The air was very thin under the tarp, trapping all the sweltering heat. Ronon's face was slick with sweat; Sheppard's complexion was a deep shade of red. They needed to find real cover. But which way?

“Those instincts telling you where we should go?”

Ronon felt light-headed, his leg a throbbing mess, but he couldn't allow the pain to consume him and turn into a liability. “We'll head that way.” He pointed behind them.

“Yeah, was thinking the opposite of the bad guys was a good choice, too.” Sheppard reached for the pack slung over his shoulder. “Let's see what we have.” Rummaging through the depths, he pulled out what looked like a gigantic saline bag the size of a knapsack. “Think our buddies stole the water this used to store. There's condensation on the inside. At least they were considerate thieves,” Sheppard laughed, pulling out a pair of goggles and putting them on. 

Ronon sifted through his, noting the equally empty water pouch. He found his own pair of goggles, slipping the eye protection on after a couple clumsy, one-handed attempts. 

Sheppard removed his BDU shirt, leaving on his T-shirt underneath. “Hand me your knife.” 

Ronon slapped the handle into his friend's hand, watching him slit the shirt into separate pieces before giving the blade back. “We'll use the buttons to secure it around our foreheads.”

“Good idea,” Ronon said, allowing Sheppard to secure the shirt around his face. Ronon's dreads shielded the back of his head. Sheppard had to use two pieces, the second longer part protecting the back of his head and neck. The shirt was black and absorbed the sun's blistering rays, but the fabric would still trap the sweat on their skin and cool them slightly. 

“Ready?” 

They didn't have a choice. “Let's go.”

The two of them set off into the desert, clueless where it would lead them. The wind blew sand into their faces; the pounding sun boiled their backs. It would take a miracle or blind luck to find a safe place to hide.

But that had never stopped them before.

* * *

John trudged ahead one foot at a time. The bedrock and the surrounding vast emptiness reminded him of his Death Valley survival training. The endless harsh soil went as far as the eye could see, heat rising from miles of silt and mica. The sun overhead was a giant blob of white hot light three times larger than Earth's. 

His T-shirt clung to his back with sweat drenching it then evaporating in a nonstop cycle. He didn't dare speak, conserving the fading moisture remaining in his mouth. His head pounded, and only drawing gasping breaths kept the nausea at bay. A concussion was low on his list of worries, but it made walking in a straight line a challenge.

Ronon's weight seemed to double then triple as he leaned on John’s shoulder. At one point the bigger guy dragged John down, leaving them both in a sprawled heap, panting on the ground. 

“Leave me,” Ronon rasped.

“No.”

“Find shelter...come back.”

“Sorry, can't.” 

John mustered every strained muscle, every overtaxed ligament, and rose on rubbery legs. The world spun around and he closed his eyes to ease the dizziness. He sucked in hot, dry air and heaved Ronon into a fireman's carry, nearly snapping his spine in the process.

His skin sizzled; the additional weight of his burden made him falter every few minutes. 

_Keep going._

The horizon simmered ahead without sign of shrub or cactus, or anything that could provide shade. At this rate, they'd both drop from dehydration. He blinked at his watch, unable to make out the bleary numbers from the glare. They'd been out here an hour, maybe two since being dropped off.

A breeze stirred up the top layer of sand, the dust like tiny razors against his forearms and exposed skin. Out in the distance he spotted a fuzzy glob of color against the haze. He hiked further, not caring who was approaching. He'd either beg for help or kill them, hopefully finding something useful on the body. 

Two minutes later he sank to his knees. “Sorry, big guy.”

Ronon didn't reply and John clawed his way out from under his larger bulk, blinking at the figure only a few meters away now and closing fast. His teammate had the knife and John was too slow and weak to grab it, only managing to sit up by the time a shadow lent him mercy.

“You're part of the new arrivals? Don't look like much.”

The newcomer's robe was a cloak of faded blues and yellows and he held a primitive cloth umbrella of the same hues that blocked the sun and gave John a needed boost. 

He held a hand over his eyes to look into their visitor’s face. “We're looking for shelter.”

“What do you have to trade for it?”

John swallowed, trying to water his mouth and speak with a bit of authority. “Just tell us where we can find some.”

The guy snorted, clearly not seeing them as a threat. He twirled a tiny tuft of silver hair that dangled from a mustard turban woven of coarse ropes, a puffy handkerchief poking out from the top part. “Information has value. I don't give it out for free.”

“Is trading the only means to buy things here?”

“Besides water and _orris_? All things have value. I deal in it all,” the man chuckled, doubling the deep wrinkles of his forehead, his hand brushing a thick graying beard. “I am Lyle. If you want it, I can get it. For a price,” he added. 

“How about we don't kill you.”

Ronon's voice surprised them both and despite being out of it for some time, he still looked like he could rip a person apart with his bare hands.

“Killing me isn't an option, friend. The Shan'ka would not be pleased.”

That was the fourth time John had heard that name. “Who are they?”

Lyle shook his head. “People you don't wanna mess with. Water harvesters. Balancers of life and death.”

John still didn't understand. “They harvest water? From where?”

“From anything. Including people,” Lyle whispered. “The cycle of life.”

It hit him then. The human body was seventy percent water. John felt his anger rise, thinking what the Spraza had wanted to do with Ronon. Extra adrenaline kicked in and he rose to his feet. “We need a place to sleep.”

Lyle's casual mannerisms stilled and he wiped a finger methodically across his goggles. “We all need things.” He did a half circle around John. “Doesn't appear that you have much to offer. Of course, someone with your looks could fetch a good price for just a few hours on his knees.” 

Ronon growled, but John held him back. “Easy. Just sit tight.” He waited for his friend to calm down before turning. “As flattering as that is, I don't think so.”

They couldn't give away Ronon's knife. It was their only means of defense. John mentally cataloged the clothes on his back, aware that a source of cloth could be worth a lot.

Lyle reached towards John's throat, and he snatched the trader’s fingers, ready to break them.

“Take it easy. Just admiring the metal around your neck.” 

The man smiled when John let go, and tugged at the dog tags. “Yes, these will do.”

“You can have one,” John countered. 

“Give me both and I'll take you personally to a set of caves not too far from here.”

For all he knew the tags were worth much more. “How about adding some water for the trip there?”

“I could wait for you to keel over and claim whatever I wished.” 

Bargaining was not one of his skill sets and killing the trader wasn't an option. Did he bluff? “Maybe we'll wait for someone else to come along.” John shrugged.

A hyena-like laugh pierced the air. “I like you. It takes _nunkas_ to grasp at something so out of reach.” Lyle scanned the horizon. “The Spraza roam here during prison drop-offs. How did you escape their clutches?” He brought his gaze over to Ronon, stepping closer to get a good look at him. “I see. Foolish choice, stranger.”

John made himself a barrier, blocking the trader's view of his teammate. “How about sticking to our deal?”

“I'll guide you for the metal and for eluding those scum. If you were capable of such an act, perhaps you'll prove useful later.” Lyle glanced at the two of them. “They'll be looking for you...I'll take both metal pieces and the chain in exchange for a place where the Spraza won’t dare search. If you can keep up.”

Ronon got to both feet, lines of pain breaking across his face, his body trembling with the effort of standing, even hunched over. “Lead the way.”

The merchant ignored them both, turning his back. John slung Ronon's arm around his shoulder, knowing his friend and not pushing him to accept more help. Not until he'd have to carry him again.

“There is a place to hide very close by. Many don't go this far out from the transports.”

John didn't reply, concentrating instead on breathing and keeping his feet moving through the cloying sand.

A half hour of toiling under the burning sun and John’s body was buckling under the strain. Ten minutes after that and Lyle spoke up. “It'll take you a long time to gather water from here. No one is willing to wander away from the main settlement. Maybe you'll live long enough to find your way over there.”

He'd wait for sunset and go out then. Ronon was too easy to pick off and distance didn't matter if the shelter was secure. John was roasting alive, the trek a march through hell. 

“We're getting close to the borders of the Void. I dare not get any closer.”

The temperature had dropped by a couple degrees, the blinding white now a subtler yellow overhead.

“We...we… getting close to nightfall?” John wheezed. Ronon had passed out again, becoming an anchor dragging him down.

Hands touched his shirt, pawed at his neck. “The sun never sets here, stranger. There is no relief.”

“What?” John wanted to peel off his clothes. “I...don't understand.”

His dog tags were removed, the metal pieces clanking together.

“There is no night. Only heat and death.” 

The unforgiving ground dug into John's knees. _When had he fallen?_ “How... how do we get water?”

Lyle sighed. “You don't. The transports leave supplies every third working cycle near the settlement. If you don't die today you might be in good enough shape to fight the others for some.”

No wonder there were mobs and gangs here. John had really screwed up strategically. He should have given up his boots, but then Ronon would have been killed. 

“Of course there's the Shan'ka. You could get water from them, but most people just trade what they harvest for orris.”

A hand slapped John's face, the sting rousing him, and he looked up at the trader in a haze. 

“Your shelter is three hundred steps ahead. I cannot stay. We're in the shadow of the Void and your metal is worthless if I don't get to use it.”

The Void? John's head spun. He saw a small mouth inside a hill at the foot of a mountain, the top hidden by shadows and shade.

“Just don't go any closer to the Void. Of course, if you want a quick death then run. Run as fast as you can towards it.”

“Water?”

Lyle snorted. “Nothing's free.”

“I'll owe you,” John lied desperately.

“You're gonna die here. We all will. It's just a matter of time. When do you think I'd collect?”

“I'm...” John's boots melted into the ground, but he pushed and shoved and drew himself up. “...good for it.”

Dots danced across his vision and he still had to drag Ronon to safety.

“You would have survived the walk if you hadn't wasted your energy on your pal.”

John felt his fingers pried apart and something shoved between them.

“The fact that you're still fighting is interesting. I'll be back in two cycles to see if you're alive for payment.” 

John could smell the water from the pouch; his tongue tingled at the prospect of drinking the liquid. “Why?”

Lyle tapped John's face again. “Collecting debts is what I do. I'll gain something for very little. If you die I'll give your bodies to the Shan'ka. It's a win-win for me.” The merchant adjusted the knapsack across his back. “Lucky for me that I was scouting for _sherbage_ ,” he laughed, shaking John's tags between his fingers.

It took all his willpower not to snatch them back. John pulled out the cork from the pouch and took two small sips to clear the dried husk from his throat. “Yeah, real lucky.” 

A strong wind blew, stirring up the dust. Lyle froze, head jerking up at the hills. “They're here, watching us. It's best to head for cover. Or even the Shan'ka won't have anything left to harvest,” he whispered.

Fear had a pungent smell, adrenaline mixed with sweat. Lyle reeked of it, fumbling with his umbrella. John didn't want to stick around to find out what could cause a hardened desert survivor to shake like he did but had to ask. “What are you scared of?”

“Evil. Many enter the Void, only a few have ever come back.”

“Maybe it's nicer.”

“No! The last person to return alive, died screaming in terror about the monsters there. They say if you listen close enough, you can hear their screams. Then there's _Malvick_. Lurking. Waiting to strike.” 

The words floated on the breeze and the merchant was gone, running when running was breaking the rules for survival in the desert. 

Wild animals could be hunted for food, so it had to be something far worse. Were there Wraith here? 

John looked up at the stark contrast between the beating sun and the darkness far off in the distance. 

_“The sun never sets here, stranger.”_

Yet, there was the cover of night over the hills. But for now, the mystery would have to wait. 

Three hundred steps. Thirty paces times ten. John stared at Ronon, could feel his muscles wilt and shrivel away. He secured the tiny water pouch, grabbed his friend's tremendous weight and hefted him over his back. And felt his spine cave in.

“No,” he growled. At the desert. At the sun. 

“One,” he whispered, taking a faltering step. _Two_. But his mind whispered it, conserving his failing strength. 

He thought of a dark cave, of shade and cool air. It was the only thing keeping him going. 

_Ten._

John's arms trembled; his knees shook.

_Sixteen._

He'd worry about getting more water. Of finding the settlement and things like food once he collapsed.

_Twenty-eight._

He groaned, Ronon's body suffocating him.

_Thirty._

He only had to do this nine more times.

* * *

_The Saurin had really cool guns. They had a blaster like his, except it had two barrels and twice the firepower. Ronon had been promised a tour of the armory where he was told they had rows and rows of different types of weapons. He had grinned at the prospect, giddy at getting his hands on such things._

_The city was made up of honeycombed rooms; every wall was etched with elaborate patterns. Something about them, something oddly familiar, caused his hackles to rise and his body to tense with unease._

_They had spent too much time with the Saurin, too many days under the seduction of new technology and power. For every marvel on Atlantis, the Saurin had an improved version._

_“I've never seen such advancements in Ancient technology,” Rodney had whispered excitedly._

_Things that were too good to be true, always were. And it was too good to find people eager to share and exchange information and ideas. People who allowed them to leave and return freely, and never threatened or raised a single gun._

_The explosion had been Ronon's fault, a simple miscalculation, but he hadn't been alone._

* * *

He awoke to a mouth full of sand and inside a tunnel of black with light streaming from one end. Ronon couldn't depend on his eyes, so his ears had to tell him what his sight couldn't. This was a cave much like the hundreds scattered across other worlds he'd been on. They all felt and smelled of mineral and stone, and provided a little relief from the punishing outside elements. He was no longer inside an oven, but it was still oppressively hot.

He remembered a shoulder digging into his gut and being jostled about, seemingly for hours. Of falling and hurting and begging to allow the winds to scatter him across the sands. 

“Sheppard?” Ronon held onto a scream of pain, biting his lip, and patting the space next to him. “Sheppard!” he growled, his voice bouncing off the walls as he found nothing on his other side. 

He pushed up on his hands and shaking wrists, fighting the newest head rush. His dreads brushed up against the roof of the cave, confronting him with the suddenly tight area. Closing his eyes despite the darkness, he pushed the ceiling back in his mind. Sheppard would never dump him inside a tiny hole alone. 

Where was he? Had he been captured?

“John?”

This was Michael's lair all over again; sunlight replaced heavy debris, gangs the hybrids. The panic was the same, fear fueling his need to drag his body in search of his friend. 

“Hey, don't move,” a voice whispered.

Ronon fell onto his back, gritting his teeth. _“Where?”_ Simple questions gained simple answers.

“We're inside part of a foothill. I was seeing how far back the cave went.”

“And?”

Sheppard's face appeared over his, hazel eyes glowing in the faint light that came through the entrance. “Um, far,” he grunted, resting flat on his stomach, arms outstretched in front of him. “The cave opens up enough to stand and...” He let out a groan. “It's cooler in the back.”

The thought of colder air and greater space made Ronon's skin itch but he resisted the urge to seek it out. He no longer boiled inside his own flesh, but the desert sands had stripped him of energy. He remembered precious water dribbled onto his lips, being coaxed to take slow sips and his mouth salivated at the prospect of more.

“Sheppard.”

No reply.

“Sheppard?”

“Hmmmm?”

“You okay?”

“Gonna take a little nap.”

Deep down Ronon knew that was bad. They didn't know where they were, had little in the way of defense or provisions. But Sheppard had carried him through the searing heat, taken Ronon's larger weight onto his back to safety.

He pulled out the last of the knives the Saurin hadn't found, the cold steel lending him strength. “I'll take first watch.”

* * *

Sheppard slept for a long time and it made Ronon worry about that kick to his skull. People with head injuries were supposed to stay awake, which was a nice thought when a jumper or a gate was nearby. At some point the silence and pain lulled him to sleep then a noise startled him and his instincts took over.

“Whoa, buddy. That's my throat.”

The knife rested against Sheppard's carotid and Ronon removed the blade as the words _I fell asleep_ repeated accusingly in his head.

Sheppard was a voice and a moving outline. “I have to head out. I split up the water the trader gave me. We'll have to ration it the best we can.”

Ronon picked up the water pouch; the entire thing was flat except for a splashing in the very bottom. “Do you know where you're going?”

“Back the way we came. I don't want to wait around two more days for water. I'm going to see what this settlement has to offer.”

“Think that's wise?”

“We're seriously lacking intel about this place. I'm going to scout out the food situation and what can be done about finding something worth bartering with.” Sheppard ran a hand through his hair. “We don't have anything to set your leg with and if it's going to heal, we need to keep it immobile.”

“Think we're gonna be here a while?” It was a rhetorical question. Atlantis had no idea where they were. He was injured and there was no sign of technology that could be used to contact anyone. This was a barren world, the perfect prison to leave people to die.

“I know a little about deserts, how to obtain water from the environment. I think I can find things once I learn the layout.” Sheppard cleared his throat. “Um, look. I need to borrow some of your clothes.”

“Think my pants might be too big.”

“That's the least of my worries.”

With a nod and a grunt Ronon slipped his shirt off over his head, gently extricating his necklace as it snagged in the woven collar opening. The air felt good over his heated skin.

Sheppard peeled off his T-shirt while he spoke. “Good thing you've wearing the long-sleeved one, or I'd be sporting a permanent farmer's tan.”

Protection from sunburn would be vital for going out for long periods of time. Exposure was the silent killer and Ronon's shirt would hang loose and baggy on Sheppard's frame, providing air pockets for insulation. 

Sheppard must have been thinking the same thing. “The shirt will help. I can get by with --”

“No.” He undid his belt buckle and lay fully on his back. “Just pull 'em off.” His one leg was swollen and he'd have to lift both off the ground to make it work. Black BDUs would fry Sheppard alive and Ronon wouldn't allow his injury to become even more of a hindrance. 

“Ronon, I'll find another way to--”

“You're wasting time.”

“Fine. Just don't pass out on me.”

There was no mincing words. Sheppard knew what was at stake, understood about swallowing pain and getting things done. They'd both sacrificed when needed. Bullet wounds, illness, walking around with a hole in your side. Sheppard removed Ronon's boots in silence.

“Ready?”

Ronon was going to tell him to get the hell on with it when Sheppard yanked without the counting to three crap. Of course, one tug wasn’t enough. How many it took he couldn’t say, because by the third he mercifully passed out.

Coming to an unknown time later, he grunted in annoyance at once again waking up and having to figure out what was going on. Although watching Sheppard struggle with pants that swallowed him whole _was_ almost amusing. “Roll up the ends,” he suggested.

Sheppard wrestled and fought. “I did that. Don't think there are enough holes in the belt to keep them from slipping down.” 

“You're lucky those aren't the leather pair.” It actually felt good not to be weighed down by extra layers. Ronon didn't wear normal boxer shorts like most men on Atlantis; his were longer, more practical in bad weather. The thin breathable cloth almost touched his knees, offering more comfort, yet covered his skin which was essential in the desert. 

“How are you feeling? I should check the break.”

Ronon slapped Sheppard's hand away. “Don't! I'm good.” It wasn't like they could do anything about it anyway. “What about you? How's the head?”

“It’s fine. Told you it was too hard to crack.”

As his eyes adjusted to the low light he found he could make out expressions now and read John's easily. 

“Arms are bit overcooked, but I'll live,” Sheppard lied again.

For how long? Ronon wrestled with their odds of survival, knowing his part of the equation could doom them both. 

“We'll leave your boots off for now; it'll keep you cooler. You should put on my shirt.”

The idea of anything on his skin was unimaginable. “Not right now.”

“You'll cool down more after a few hours. If I'm not back, go ahead and wear them to reduce sweating. The BDUs too if you can wiggle into them.”

Sheppard's vision must have gotten better too, catching Ronon's _you’ve got to be kidding me_ expression because he got all commanding. “You need protection from dirt and insects. Look, I know you don’t like resting, but less movement means less perspiration.”

It was excruciating lying there. Lying there while Sheppard got ready to face an entire world without backup. They had pissed off people and had to hide because of him and now Sheppard needed to forage for two and search without Ronon's guidance. 

Selfishness and fear tangled with each other, mixing with and compounding the agony he wouldn't show his team leader. Even if Sheppard knew. The man was anything but stupid.

“I don't know how long this is going to take.”

Translation: Don't do anything reckless. Sheppard stayed by his side, not quite hovering, but he hadn't left. Ronon thought of the lack of water and desperate situation. “I'll be here,” he deadpanned. 

“Look, we’ve found shelter which reduces the temperature by twenty or thirty degrees. At least it‘s something,” Sheppard reasoned. He searched for more encouraging words, but found none. “Right. Well then.”

“Go. The sooner you leave, the sooner you come back with my clothes.”

“Don't try to kill me when I return.”

Sheppard put on his gear and crawled out of the cave, disappearing into the light. 

Ronon found it strange to see his clothes on someone else. As if a part of him had walked into the desert and left a shell behind. 

They may just be garments, stolen pieces sewn together on the run, trivial reminders of years in places worse than this. But it still bothered him and would in the countless hours in the dark to follow.

* * *

The human race on Earth had been cradled in arid lands for thousands of years. Learning to be part of the desert's ecosystem was the secret to surviving it. John kept his head down as he made his trek; the pieces of his BDU shirt covered the back of his neck and around his face. The goggles were pretty good at keeping out the light, but couldn't match his aviators’ abilities to block UV rays. Then again, considering the amount of radiation he'd been exposed to over the past few years, it wasn't exactly his biggest concern.

Shelter, water, food. Those were the three components for surviving in desert landscapes. They had the cave, but the lack of nightfall seriously hampered any ability to obtain the last two tenets. Reconnaissance, scouting for resources were achieved easier after sundown when the body could sustain heavier activity without increased loss of water. Training could only do so much and it was his job to think outside the box and adapt to changes. 

Ronon's pants hung low on his hips; the ends had long since unrolled and dragged along the ground. It reminded him of trying on his dad's clothes and sitting behind a desk in a mansion's office. Mom used to come in with lunch and he'd tell her to 'hold his calls'. Playing in his old man's expensive shoes had lasted only a year. When he got older, all he wanted to do was see him more. Then he 'grew up' and didn't want to see his father at all.

The shirt sleeves kept the sun from searing the flesh off his bones but the burns he already had on his arms did not enjoy their rough fabric covering. 

At least it wasn’t a completely new experience for him. A tour in Afghanistan had taught him that your body got used to the heat the more you went out in it and temperatures on the tarmac had risen to the low 120s, even the 130s for months at a time there. 

This slice of hell was hotter than most worst days. Animals could lead to natural cisterns that collected rainwater and provided a source for food, but the lack of droppings or any birds circling the sky for prey scared him. Was this whole place lifeless? There were no dry creek beds or signs of runoff and since leaving the caves behind, he had seen no rock formations in sight to take cover in. Cover that would’ve been a blessed respite as the jackhammer on his skull worked up a notch under the blinding sun.

Did he pass the drop zone from the prison transport yet? It was hard to tell in such monotonous conditions. After half an hour, the beginnings of oblique rock replaced the endless lines of desert, and the ground became rugged; glints of shade were produce by piles of rocks. John made a mental note of a possible rest-point for later travels. 

Slowly the slopes joined mounds of stone. Another thirty minutes later and he was surrounded by another set of low, rocky hills and more importantly the openings to dozens of caves. It had taken him hours to reach shelter with Ronon; it was good to know they were not too far away from resources.

The temptation to run towards civilization was strong but caution reined in his impulse. He felt for a knife and gun that weren't there, having left the only weapon behind with Ronon. The soldier part of him said approach the dwellings with forethought; the hungry and parched man wanted to hurry. 

There were multiple entrances, of various sizes, scattered along the hillside, all of them marked by a different shade of paint or dye. 

“Okay, let's avoid red,” he said out loud, remembering which colors the Spraza wore. With his luck he'd run right into his pals from earlier. Or had it been it yesterday?

John counted to three with his back against the nearest slab of rock when a voice called out to him from the depths of the closest opening. A white set of markings had been daubed on the stone above it.

“What's your business?”

There was no real plan, and John found himself lost for words, standing there dumbly, stuck with a ‘make it up as you go along’ strategy. 

“You been outside too long or what?” the voice prodded.

“I'm looking to trade,” John ad-libbed.

A man stepped into the daylight, his body wrapped much like a Buddhist monk, head to toe in patches of dingy cloth. Guess this dude couldn't afford pants. “The desert's gone to your head. These are living quarters and all of them have been taken.”

“Right. Of course.”

“You new?”

John tensed, knowing that confirming it made him an easy mark. But he had thirty pounds on the guy so he wasn't too worried about a fight. Pointing at the markings on the alcove he asked, “Remind me again which are for business?” 

“Dots are for bartering. Solid lines are for sleeping chambers.”

John was in the residential section apparently. Okay, square lines around the blobs of paint were homes. The designs inside the squares were probably names of those who slept there. “Yeah, got turned around.”

“Right. Just in case you _forgot_ , the ones over there with the blue dots are the biggest area for trade around here.”

The guy stepped back into his cave, leaving behind the scent of berries and strange incense. John ignored the ache in his gut. If he missed too many meals...well he'd cross one bridge at a time. Right now he relished the shade from the grottos, but he made himself stick to the outer edges so as not to risk getting close enough to alarm any of the occupants. He wasn't overheating like he had when carrying Ronon, but his black shirt amplified the sauna around his face. 

The sounds of activity grew louder as he got closer to the large cavity ahead; the noise was enough cover for John to enter casually, as if he belonged. The change from day to night blinded him and he pulled down his goggles, letting his eyes slowly acclimate to the dark. The temperature difference was astoundingly cooler and he fought the temptation to curl up in a corner to rest. Pulling away the remains of his shirt, he breathed the stale air in deeply. The inside of the cave was the size of the jumper bay and he wandered around, trying not to stick out like a sore thumb. 

Dozens of people milled about in small gatherings. Most of them were intent on their wares; a few smoked and talked off to the side. There was no furniture unless you counted large chunks of stone scattered about for people to sit on. Many stared at him when he walked by, his unruly hair out of place among the countless shaved heads. A guy cooked what looked like stringy bits of beef jerky spread out on a rock and another 'merchant' pulled out clumps of dead insects from a large cloth sack while a guy argued in wild gestures over it. John didn't get too close, unsure about the customs for such things. 

Standing with his back against the wall he took in the sounds of bartering. The main currency was pouches of water and John observed a transaction with interest. One customer took a large pouch strapped to his shoulder and with a tube, transferred water into the merchant's empty one. The merchant hooked the container at one end of a hand scale, a weight dangled on the opposite, the two balancing each other out. 

The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on John. There was nothing he could offer these people. Nothing at all. Maybe physical labor could be used in a trade.

Body language gave away who could be reasoned with or intimidated for information. Too bad he didn’t have time to track anyone down. Four Spraza entered, the red tattoos across their cheeks a walking advertisement of their affiliation. They escorted a scrawny guy in tattered robes who carried three of the prison-issued knapsacks.

“Today's _fernandi_ trade: three to one _dunka_ ,” the newest trader announced. 

A dunka must be the little pouches of water the merchants used as a standard of measurement. John wasn't an expert on fluid conversions or anything, but the dunka bags looked like they could hold sixteen ounces or so. Doing simple math shouldn't have been difficult, but his brain crunched the numbers slowly. 

There were what? Four quarts to a gallon? Thirty-two ounces in a quart? He was supposed to drink that in a normal day in Afghanistan during Green temperature conditions and during those dog days of Red it went up to three or four. 

One thing at a time. He had to get water first and worry about how much later. 

The fernandi were thin scaly lizard things with narrow, snake-like bodies, their skin similar to the lining of Kadar’s shoes. The raw meat hung on hooks against dunka bags and once the measures were figured out for each piece, reptile became the featured menu item for the day. The fernandi merchant stored all his water in a single heavy pouch that one of his Spraza buddies carried “for him.” A fifth Spraza member showed up; he had wavy lines of red paint where his eyebrows should have been. He scanned the layout of the cave before his gaze turned in John's direction.

Uh-oh. Now all five of them were looking at him and John didn't want to stick around to see if they had been part of his welcoming committee from before or were just interested in the guy wearing the alien clothes. At least protecting their bag of water took precedence since only two started coming towards him. John stayed against the wall, creeping sideways then ducking into another corridor he'd scoped out earlier. 

Cave systems could stretch for miles; this could be good for a quick escape, or he could wind up wandering around for days. But John took a twisty path leading away from his buddies. There were signs of light ahead and that's when he noticed openings carved out of the roof, material draped over them to diffuse the light as makeshift curtains over the ‘windows’. Following the tunnel, he treaded carefully over the uneven footing in the narrow passage. 

After a few minutes of walking he began to think about turning back when the passage opened up to another room. A burning smell hit him hard; it was singed hair mixed with sage or other spices. The odor stirred his empty belly and he grabbed part of the wall for leverage as a wave of dizziness rocked him on his feet.

Stress, anxiety, physical exhaustion pressed down on him. Not now. He'd succumbed to his massive headache earlier; this wasn't the time for it to gain the upper hand. The dizzy spell slowly dissipated though his steps were less certain. He used the wall for cover and support, the lower ceiling forcing him to hunch over. 

The stench grew worse, unwashed bodies crammed in a tiny space mixing with burning herbs. John clamped his mouth shut just in case his stomach rebelled, and he almost tripped over a man sprawled on the ground. 

“Watch it!” the guy snapped.

“Um, sorry,” John said, sidestepping the man and almost stumbling over another. 

The only illumination came from a tiny hole in the ceiling to his left. People drifted toward the sunbeam, using tiny bits of glass to focus the heat to light their hand-rolled cigarettes.

John clung to the shadows, keeping his eye out for more Spraza members and transfixed by what he saw in front of him. This was a smoking den of some sort, clouds of thick haze irritating his lungs. There were maybe twenty people spread about in various spots, a couple whispering back and forth, taking long drags from their cigs. Most everyone else rested on blankets, others on thin handmade bedrolls. There were no signs of any of his _friends_ and John felt his body give in to exhaustion, the dark cool chamber inviting him to sleep in some faraway corner.

“You need anything?”

He startled at the voice. “Maybe,” John replied.

“Why else would ya be here?” the guy hissed in his ear. “You're here for _orris_ , of course.” The man studied him with a single green eye, the other one a gaping socket. “I'll make ya a sweet offer.”

John noticed the faded smears of green paint along the guy's brow and wondered if they were signs of another gang. Then he took in the lazy, contented sprawls of those surrounding him and put two and two together. “Orris's pretty popular I take it?” 

The dealer licked his lips then the tips of his gapped teeth. “You must be a newbie to its wonders. I will gladly share with you.” 

John stepped back as the guy slithered closer. “Not interested,” he growled, almost tripping over a leg of some random body. 

“Doesn't matter. Orris will find you. When hunger calls, orris answers. Keeps you company when your belly twists and snarls.” 

“I'm good.”

The dealer pulled out a few crushed needles from the folds of his dirty clothes. “I'll give you a taste for free. No need for water.”

“I said, no, thank you,” John snapped, jerking the man's bony wrist sharply until his eye almost popped out.

The dealer laughed, oblivious to how his brittle bones ground together. “You'll be back. When you shed and sweat out all of your precious water. Or when the hole in your stomach grows big enough. I'll be here waiting.”

John held his breath to avoid the orris fumes and flung the dealer out of his way. He didn't wait for the body to smack the cave wall and wound his way through the den. Taking a left, he followed the path deeper into the cavern, the temperature continuing to drop to almost tolerable levels. This was the key to staying alive in arid environments, keeping inside and sleeping all day to conserve energy. 

Much of the underground dwelling was a series of tight passages that narrowed to dead ends or crawl spaces where people slept. He found another chamber where part of the ceiling slanted to the ground and watched as scraps of fabric were bartered back and forth, the item of greatest interest a pile of bones, possibly human. John recoiled at the thought of their value then realized how easily they could be carved into tools.

The first main area was used to trade food and this place was for mainly raw materials. There had to be ways to scavenge this stuff. Areas to gather or farm what was needed. If people could lie around and get stoned, then he could figure out a way to get involved in what passed for the local economy. 

“But where is all the water stored?” John mused out loud. 

“The Shan’ka keep more than they could ever use.”

“Lyle,” John breathed, wondering where the hell the guy had come from. 

“You made it here. Impressive.” 

Lyle was a short, square man, who might have been slightly heavy at one point. Before the desert. Whatever life he'd had, it was of one with an impressive pedigree. Only the Patrick Sheppards of the world carried themselves with such confidence. 

He couldn't screw things up with the only person he could deal with. “The lizard things. Um, the fernandi? Where can I go to find them? If you show me I'll bring back enough to split with you,” John said, hoping it sounded appealing.

“You've been here for two cycles and want to try digging for fernandi?” Lyle laughed, holding his hand to his chest. He stopped chuckling and stepped closer, sizing John up. “Maybe. There's still enough of you to last out there.”

Two cycles? Had John really slept a day in his cave? “Where do you dig them up?” 

“Out in the Tharsqin Sands the fernandi burrow. Many people go out to find them. Most don't return.”

“Sounds like a challenge,” John quipped.

Lyle pulled down the cloth over his chin, twisting the silver hairs of his beard. “Maybe.”

“You help me and I'll share with you what I catch.”

“Always grasping what's out of reach. If you could even make the trip, catching fernandi in the swimming sands is deadly work. And what would I gain if you were sucked away to your grave before you paid me your debt?” 

His words were scornful but it was clear the merchant was interested. There was a glint in his eyes so John had to appeal to his greedy side. “You trade in food? If you don't, I’m providing something of value. Another thing to barter with.”

“Maybe. It is useless to discuss. A great sandstorm is ripping through the Tharsqin. It'll be cycles before anyone can get near it. Haffa was lucky he left with his catch before it swept in.” 

“Who’s Haffa?” John asked.

“He was the one with the Spraza, one of the few who’ve learned the ways to harvest fernandi.”

John couldn't wait out a storm but tried to keep the desperation out of his voice, hoping they weren‘t similar to the ones in Afghanistan that lasted for weeks. “A little wind couldn't hurt,” he lied. 

“Winds here can tear at the hull of the prison transport. Sure enough to eat you away in seconds.” Lyle leaned his back against the wall, sliding down to the floor. He pulled out a pinch of needles and started rolling them in a scrap of paper. “The sun's not yet dulled your eyes, stranger. There'll be no fernandi for several cycles. The sandstorms do not go swiftly.”

John paced, gnawing his lower lip. “What else? There has to be animal life to eat. What about plants? I saw... I saw insects. I'll search for those. Until the storm blows over.”

“You have to bribe the Spraza to get anywhere else. They use their numbers to bully others from the most fertile grounds.” 

Pacing sent spikes of pain through John's skull, and his legs threatened to give out from under him. There was no wasting energy like that. He half sat, half collapsed next to the merchant, watching as Lyle scraped a sliver of metal against a flint to light his smoke. “You use that stuff?”

“Orris is vital here. Like many useful things, it can be used too much.” Lyle brought the drug to his lips and took a long drag, blowing the potent smoke out. “You'll use it. You'll have to. Keeps you from realizing how hungry you are.”

“Like an appetite suppressant.” John got it now. “Use the right amount and it tricks the brain; overdo it, and it becomes addictive.”

“Your words are confusing, stranger. Orris dulls the ache in the belly. It can also make you forget what ails you in large amounts. It is a funny thing, can affect people differently, but is highly valued.”

“Do the Spraza control the trade?” 

“No, the Jad do.”

“Let me guess. They use green markings to identify each other?” John didn't want to cross paths with a drug gang.

Lyle laughed, blowing little rings of smoke. “Yes, quick with a smile. And quick with a blade. They do not get along with the Spraza.”

John pulled his knees up to rest his aching head on them. “One controls the water, the other the drugs. Got the makings of a little war.” It was useful info. 

“The Spraza beat and bully. You be good at keeping away. I heard scavengers took the desert cover they were forced to abandon after your stand-off. It cost them a great amount of cloth and the rare bones that held it up. They will be after your water.”

John knew Lyle meant his life water. “This Jad gang...”

“They're dangerous people, doing dangerous things. Their dwellings are not far from here. But it'll take more than an offer of alliance to join them.”

“Think I'll skip the fraternity brother thing.”

“You have no water source. You have no food, no protection. You have no choice.” Lyle took out a dunka pouch and swallowed a drink. “If you offer up your pal, the Spraza might only punish you for the debt.” 

“Not a chance.”

“You have nothing to offer the Jad. There’s no surviving alone.”

John dragged himself to his feet, felt the cave tilt. “I'm not alone.”

Lyle didn't stand, eyes watching those around them. “Most do not last long here. You have to fight for every drop of water, every morsel of food. Tell me. How will you do this for two?”

“By fighting harder.”

“Can you be in two places at once? Because you’ll need to be if your friend is alone so close to the Void.”

John grabbed two handfuls of fabric, dragging the man up to meet face-to-face, legs struggling to stand. “I thought it was safe there!”

Lyle's face was unconcerned and his breath stank of orris. “From the Spraza. Even the Jad.”

John was tired and filthy and feeling a little unhinged. “Who is it _not_ safe from?”

_“Him_ ,” Lyle whispered. And only then did the merchant's blue eyes show fear.

“Who?” When no answer came spilling out of Lyle's mouth, John smacked the guy's head hard against the wall. “Who? I'm not going to ask again.”

“Malvick. He lives in the Void. Lives among the devils that rip anyone else apart. He's good at killing. Enjoys it. You and your pal are right in his play area.”

“You took us there. Hell, I paid you to take us there!” John seethed. 

“You wanted shelter and protection from the Spraza. I gave it to you. Figured you’d join with someone before he came down.” Lyle must have sensed John's loss of control, saw something in his smoldering eyes. “He doesn't come around often. People leave him alone. He only trades with the Shan’ka or enters the seasonal fight rings.”

“Why are you people afraid of this Void?” John asked, easing Lyle back down to his feet.

“I told you. Because people don't return. Only the scavengers dare get near it to look for scraps, but no one ever crosses where the darkness meets.”

“But a few people do go into it?”

“If they can find their way. The terrain is treacherous, killing them before whatever lurks there can.”

There was more to it, John could tell, but he couldn't afford to waste any more energy. He had to cross the desert to get back and still have enough in his fuel tank to get the water when the prison ship dropped off supplies. 

“You are loyal. It will go away. It will go away when your tongue throbs and you want to cut the flesh from your bones. And if you really care about him then maybe you'll spare your pal and take him to the Void yourself instead of watching him go through the same thing.”

“Never happen.” 

“We will see, stranger. We will see.”

* * *

Ronon thrived on testing his boundaries, on pushing and pushing and pushing until his body gave out before his mind. He had been taught to transcend pain, to use it, mold all its raw energy into a force. It hurt, but a lot of things in life did. Ignoring an enemy didn't make him go away. Neither did ignoring your injury. 

The break in his leg required splinting to keep it aligned and there was nothing that could be used for that. The slightest movement ground the bones together and prevented proper healing. 

Lying down was out of the question even though his immobility was a severe handicap. In the Satedan military you learned how to overcome and compensate for any obstacles. 

He still had two arms and two fists. 

His training had earned him the rank of Specialist, command of his own unit, and the means to succeed in his life as a runner. But skills couldn't mend the broken parts of his body. It was one thing to direct his pain; it was another when he couldn't use all his other survival skills. 

There was no exploring his surroundings, searching for water, or hunting for food. While Sheppard had to do all those things, Ronon was left panting from simply moving. 

The cave was a relief from the blistering sun but there was no air circulation. He slowly simmered inside instead of baking alive outside. Every movement took too much effort; every breath was a lungful of hot air. If he went deeper in the cave, the darkness would bring welcome relief. Ronon wasn't afraid of the dark, wasn't afraid of much, in fact. But he didn't want to spend his days lingering in pitch blackness. It was too much like accepting death. If he couldn't observe the outside world, then he wanted to at least listen to it.

He worked on stretching Sheppard's t-shirt before slipping it over his head. The tee clung to his larger frame and he tugged and pulled on it until it fit more comfortably. It might protect him from the boiling sun outside, but he understood how important it was to keep his perspiration from evaporating too much.

Hours passed with no sign of Sheppard, or any noise besides his own breathing. Time dulled the senses; boredom made him edgy. He stared at the pouch of water, caught between thirst and the need to conserve. When was the last time he’d taken a drink? The light from the entrance never faltered and there were no points in the sky to watch to tell time.

How long did he wait? And if Sheppard didn't return, then what? Crawl after him?

Yeah, if that's what it took.

Until then, he wasn't going to sit and do nothing. There was always a way to break out of your jail cell. Wrapping Sheppard's BDUs around his leg, he gritted and grunted, using the fabric as a soft splint. By the time he tied the two pant legs together above his knee, Ronon was left sweating and shaking. But movement was necessary. A cave was the ultimate form of protection and people were not the only things to use it for shelter. Sheppard might have explored their dwelling for strategic capabilities but probably wasn't focused on anything else.

Using his knife he searched for signs that animals might have burrowed underground. The desert might be unforgiving, but life found ways to survive. If there were no plants around, this cave was the easiest place to seek shelter and avoid the danger of predators from the mountain.

The blade scraped layer after layer of soil until metal hit rock and couldn't dig any further. But he wouldn't allow it to deter him and painstakingly dragged his body to another area.

_Scrape, scrape, scrape._

It gave him focus.

_Scrape, scrape, scrape._

It gave him direction.

_Scrape, scrape, scrape._

And meaning. 

_Crunch._

The knife froze and Ronon rolled onto his side, ready to spring onto his left foot. He waited, ears straining. It could have been the wind, could have been the sound of falling rock. 

It could have been anything. 

Fingers curled around the knife handle and he waited, wanting nothing better than to take on someone or something. But the outside world burned out of his reach and nothing attacked no matter how much he wished it. 

He thrust the knife into soil, on the lookout for the slightest movement, all his attention listening to the desert. Time became the swipe of the blade and tensing of muscles. It was amazing, the sound a grain of sand made when it joined others, swirling in the air, scratching the surface of rock. Ronon was so attuned to the things beyond his scope that the tickle on the inside of his wrist surprised him.

An ant, almost half an inch long, slowly crawled its way over his thumb. 

His heart surged. Squinting in the dimness, he grinned at the sight of the black-bodied things crawling out of the hole he’d dug. Ants meant food. Scooping up a pile of dirt, he shook out the live things from the dead. Pinching off the head, he swallowed the insect, recalling days when he'd lived on hundreds of them. 

There had to be something to store them in. Finding one of his discarded socks, he started a stockpile. For every dozen, he popped a few in his mouth, his stomach growling for more. It was easy to forget five years of cooked food and spices when starvation was right around the corner.

_Crunch._

He was ready when the crunching got closer. The light streaming through the entrance fluttered then cut off completely, plunging the cave into darkness. He pushed his way to the far wall, stifling a scream at jarring his leg. The low ceiling forced the person entering to their hands and knees and Ronon was there, driving himself into the other person.

“It's me!”

Ronon felt a hand at his throat, realizing he had pressed Sheppard to the ground, his knife close to his friend's face. “Sorry,” he breathed, backing off.

Sheppard lay there catching his breath, his body going loose limbed. “That's twice, buddy.”

Ronon didn't say a word, lost in the daze of fading white. 

“Are you okay?”

No. But pain was something physical to conquer and control; allowing it free rein was to submit. “Fine,” he managed to eke out from gritted teeth. The throbbing dulled to a horrible pulse and he opened his eyes to Sheppard leaning over him. 

“You look like crap,” Sheppard said.

“So do you.” Ronon watched Sheppard grin halfheartedly as he lay on his side, not bothering to even take off his goggles. “You find anything?” 

“Yeah, lots.” Then Sheppard removed his makeshift handkerchief and eye gear. “Don't have anything to show for it.”

The two of them didn't say a word though it was obvious they each had things to share. Ronon fought against to pain in his body and grabbed the sock. “Here. Eat this.”

“Not sure if I'm desperate enough to be snacking on our clothes.” 

Ronon ignored the jibe and Sheppard's grimace at what was inside. He watched Sheppard munch on the insects without comment, making sure he took enough. Even if Sheppard came back empty-handed, the ants would provide them with nutrients.

Sheppard handed him the sock, face pained more from the concussion he kept trying to hide than their dinner. “Thanks.” Resting the side of his head into the crook of his elbow, he drew a heavy breath. “I'm going out to the transports tomorrow to get us some water.”

Just lifting his head looked like a strain for Sheppard and Ronon cursed himself again. His team leader was tough though, always finding ways to fight when the odds said otherwise. “Do you know when they'll arrive?”

Sheppard looked up at him. “No.”

“I'll take first watch. You need to sleep if you're going back out there.”

“I know you didn't sleep while I was gone.”

“Yeah, but you have a huge fight ahead.”

“Okay. But only if you tell me about the ants.”

Ronon settled himself for the long haul, waiting for the next suspicious sound. “After you tell me what's out there.”

* * *

The Saurin had never given them a trial. It was capture and punishment. They were a prudent, logical group, focused on their quest for things beyond their reach. Killing miscreants was _above them_ ; dumping them to die on a faraway rock was easy. Especially if they dropped off water supplies to ease any lingering guilt. 

What could be more generous than allowing all those who broke the law freedom in a place where they could not harm any other population?

The transport's engine hum was faint in the distance as it entered the atmosphere, shaking John out of his thoughts. His boots were still on and he tightened the laces with a quick tug. Running over his mental check-list, he grabbed both water pouches, his handkerchief, and the goggles.

“Take this,” Ronon ordered more than suggested, giving him the knife. 

John watched the ship get smaller as it flew toward the main settlement. He kept his strides long and steady, eyes in the sky and on alert, straight ahead, for whatever awaited him. The ship hovered, perhaps giving people time to come out. John didn't know and didn't care. He was still ten minutes away. 

Setting off on a dead sprint, he tried catching up, watching the freighter remain in low orbit, scouting out landing areas. Finally he got to the settlement just as the ship drew closer to the ground, kicking up dust and casting a massive dark shadow. The cargo bay doors opened like a gaping set of jaws. People appeared from everywhere, streaming out of caves while others had been waiting under handmade cover for the ship's arrival. It was nine o'clock at night according to his watch; he wondered if the transport followed a schedule. 

John glared at anyone who looked in his direction. Never show fear. Never signal a weakness. Avoiding groups huddled in large numbers, he followed the lone rogues. The freighter remained in very low orbit, and hundreds of thirsty souls tensed. 

It was like a starting gun. A metal container the size of a gasoline tanker was slowly lowered to the ground and the crowds swarmed, none of them afraid of being crushed by the giant unit. The second the container settled to rest, it became a feeding frenzy.

Expecting the pandemonium, he muscled his way past the weak and malnourished. Manhandling those who couldn't defend themselves struck him as wrong. Evil. These people were just trying to survive. But the moment emotion was allowed to taint his judgment, he lost his ground. Elbows slammed his chest; shoulders barreled and shoved him aside. This was dog-eat-dog. 

John fought using size and weight, pushing and squeezing through gaps and making some of his own. Bulldozing a path up front was the key, always moving forward until he was crushed against another back and someone else was smashed against him.

A sea of humanity stood between him and the crowds gathered in front of the row of nozzles. Random hands grabbed onto a faucet then were knocked away by more desperate ones. It was amazing that anyone got water this way. 

Then momentum shifted and a great tide broke through. Larger, stronger hands knocked the powerless down. A wave of people carried John away, their sheer numbers throwing him back. He couldn't breathe, couldn't force his way to the sounds of running water. Moisture was within his fingertips one moment, the next he was flat on his back, trying to avoid being trampled.

Mobs powered their way to the water tank, working in unison, breaking through the crush of bedlam. It was simple, really. Work as one. Plow through, protect those spearheading the drive, and surround them with your bulk. There were flashes of red face paint; a ring of Spraza punched and kicked anyone who got near those retrieving the water. And it wasn't one pouch per guy. They took dozens of large jugs. 

Where the hell did they get such large capacity containers?

John scrambled back up to his feet, seeking a faucet surrounded by fewer people. Time ticked by and the hordes thinned out, taking what could be carried, leaving little behind for the rest. Maybe this should have been the objective: gather reconnaissance before diving in head-first. Except he and Ronon couldn't afford to wait. 

Forty-five minutes later and John found a free faucet among a dozen busy ones and began filling. The water pack was deceptive looking, the stretchy foam-plastic material expanding to accumulate the liquid. It took a while, now that the remaining water was down to a trickle. 

He felt eyes on his back. Scrawny, pathetic men, draped in scraps of cloth, unwilling to fight him for their turn. John’s insides churned with guilt, aware that he'd automatically sent death glares to keep their distance.

Attaching the second pouch to the nozzle, he watched in horror as nothing came out. “No!” Banging on the side of the tank, he willed a break in the laws of physics to pump what was no longer there. 

One gallon for the two of them, for three days. His clothes were glued to his skin and his tongue was a shriveled-up lump in the back of his mouth. In desperation he stuck it under the spigot, savoring the drop that splashed on top of it. Resting his forehead against the metal, it was difficult not to think about the long walk back.

John couldn't think about those who came and went with nothing. He wasn't Colonel Sheppard out here. Not if he wanted to get Ronon home. It went against everything he stood for to pass-by those who couldn't pick themselves up. 

Walking a few minutes, he reached the beginnings of an outcropping of rock and slowed, kneeling down next to a man with a face shrunken in on itself, a living scarecrow. 

“Here,” he whispered, dripping precious drops onto brittle lips.

“Just...leave me.” 

“I can't leave you out here like this.” But there was no stalling the inevitable. 

“I'm already gone... Please. Leave me be.”

John chewed on his bottom lip, but the scarecrow was already gone and he left the corpse behind without a proper burial. 

One tenet about survival: never let your guard down. It didn't take long for people to start following him. Out of the corner of his eye, there was movement; three targets tailed behind him, the upcoming bend in the hillside providing the perfect spot to be jumped.

If you couldn't get water, you stole it.

The footsteps inched closer and closer, three sets of breaths were nearly at the nape of his neck. Wait for it. Wait...for...it.

John went to one knee, coming up with both elbows, smashing them into flesh and bone. Turning around at the same time, he slammed his fist into the middle guy's face. All three thieves stumbled, clutching injured areas. 

Too bad he didn't catch the ones crawling out of the hole a few meters away.

The first blow caught him on the side of his head. The next five pounded his shoulders and back. Knees dug into his spine, pinning him to the ground, and the water pack was removed.

“No!” John twisted and jerked against those holding him down. “Get off me!”

“Hurry up!” a voice yelled. 

“Almost done,” another said calmly.

Desperation, frustration, panic. The three collided into an explosive burst of adrenaline and John bucked away those on top of him, using precious seconds of surprise to lunge at the leader. 

It was clumsy and stupid, hurting him as much as it did his target. Arms grappled and bodies rolled. John landed on top, going for the throat. Five seconds of pressure on the carotid and it would be lights out. 

Except something prickly took a bite of his shoulder and things started going in slow motion. His limbs stopped working, lips and face went numb, and he was suddenly staring up at the sky. 

“Bastard's fast.”

“Yeah, he'd be good in a _balick_ match.”

“Whatever. Give it a few cycles and they'll be harvesting his life.”

John blinked at dark, blurry faces. Unable to wet his lips, he made a low noise in his throat. A face with a high forehead and long pointed chin decorated with green dots and lines loomed over him. “Not bad. You don't show fear. I admire that.” The guy reeked of _orris_. “You cannot talk, but it'll wear away. The thorns of the topra plant have potent properties.”

“Ziffka, let's go. They're comin'.”

“Hush. I'm talking to a new friend.” Ziffka smiled with yellow stained chipped teeth. “I'm going to leave you some water,” and shook the nearly empty pouch over John's face. “Not much, but consider it a gift. Besides, we got plenty from the others. Maybe if you show some worth, we'll talk again.”

“Why not make a claim?”

“Never kill a potential customer,” Ziffka hissed back. 

“They're almost here!”

“Got to go,” Ziffka whispered.

The gang left John a helpless pile of bones to the mercy of those approaching. His head twitched in a weird spasming motion, his other muscles slow at responding. All that remained was the next shakedown; when none came his brain was slow to interpret the fact that this newest entourage was not interested in him. 

Five robed men descended upon the scarecrow’s corpse; sunlight reflected off metal blades as they cut away the man's clothes, rolling him up in a tarp in seconds. John curled his fingers, tried to wiggle his feet. One figure started towards him and John's left leg jerked in response. The effects of whatever crap he'd been injected with was wearing away, but not fast enough. He expected another sneering convict, but not the phantom looming over him.

A giant hood partially obscured a grayish face and pale-milky eyes not covered by the usual goggles. It looked as if he’d finally come face to face, literally, with the mythical Shan’ka. They were damn freaky. The Shan’ka's robe was a simple pale blue, the edges stained by the omnipresent orange dust and dirt. 

The Shan'ka jerked his head and another, smaller figure scampered over, bowing his head quickly and looked at John, his face hidden by his robe. “Those who are unable to contribute to the whole must relinquish their water to the rest.” 

John managed a hoarse, “'kay.”

“You are still of able body. Your water will be recorded,” the man said.

He moved aside as the larger Shan'ka bent over John. A strong hand gripped his jaw, forcing it open, and a tube was shoved into his mouth. John gagged, squirming uselessly as it scraped against his tongue, sucking away what little spit was left before he was let go. His encounter with the Shan’ka lasted one or two minutes, just in time for John's body to recover from its temporary paralysis and for the men in blue robes to drag away the nearby scarecrow. 

Left dizzy and sick, there was still a twenty minute walk back to the cave to deal with. Grabbing his handkerchief that had fallen off during his earlier fight, he tied it around his face with uncooperative fingers. John had come out here with two empty pouches and would return with less than a day's supply of water.

* * *

Ronon dug his fingers in the dirt, gathering hundreds of ants and smashing them into a paste that was easier to swallow. Areas of the roof of his mouth and tongue were badly swollen after being stung with their pincers. 

He used to hunt Wraith; now he chased bugs and listened for Sheppard's return.

Part of him secretly hoped that monsters stalked those who entered the mountains above, that rumors of a powerful warrior were true. Even if it was wrong to wish for more trouble, to seek out danger when they were surrounded by so many threats. It almost gave him something to focus on, to divert the growing fire in his leg and the brewing storm of anger and guilt inside his head. 

The sounds of the transport roared overhead as it departed, the engine noise hovering in the background over the mountains. When it too finally disappeared, he counted the seconds until his team leader returned.

When Sheppard returned he wordlessly handed Ronon the water pack and crawled away into the darker part of the cave. 

“Hungry?” he asked, checking to see if Sheppard was conscious.

“No.”

An hour or so went by; it was hard to tell. Sheppard spoke of the water tanks, of desperate, thirsty people. And the attack and theft of his hard-won water. 

“Let me see your shoulder,” Ronon ordered. There wasn’t much to be done for bruised muscles or a concussion made worse, but he could pull out the tiny thorns that were still buried in Sheppard's skin and could still be slowly poisoning him. “Is everything on this planet toxic?” 

“Plants have always been used to make drugs, big guy. I just need to find them.” Sheppard's voice carried in the confines of the cave.

_I_ , not _we._

This should’ve been Ronon's cue to remind Sheppard that he didn't have to do everything by himself. But he couldn’t, because it wasn’t true. So instead he dragged his body back towards the hole he’d made, to do the only thing he could right now. Catch more ants. 

Sheppard fell asleep with his boots on again so Ronon undid the laces and pulled them off. Scooting closer, he eased Sheppard's head up enough to rest against his uninjured leg. The man didn't even stir. 

Ronon leaned against the wall, knife at ready and stood guard against the demons that lurked outside.

* * *

“Why didn't you wake me up?”

Ronon popped his neck. “You needed to sleep.”

“What I need is to go back to the settlement.” Sheppard got to all fours, swaying slightly from an obvious head rush. “I'm gonna trade my watch. Keeping time here is worthless, but maybe the glass and metal parts might be good for something.”

“You keep running into trouble when you go out.”

“Yeah, it's a gift.”

“You need to find an ally, Sheppard.”

“We'll find one, buddy. In the meantime, what did you make for breakfast?”

* * *

Ronon stared at the ceiling of the cave, wondering if it had gotten lower in the last couple days. Sheppard had left to trade for supplies, leaving him to face the pain he'd fought hard not to show. In battle you reported any injury because it affected the mission and could compromise your unit. You made adjustments, re-grouped, and set out with a new strategy.

Objectives had specific goals. When he was a teenager it was to live long enough to defend his home. Train, work hard, protect others. As a runner it was simple. Kill or be killed. Live off the land, never stop moving. There wasn’t thinking of another; _he had no one to think about._

It was one thing to fight for survival on your own, another when you had to look out for someone else. 

There was a noise, leather on dirt. Ronon held his breath, waiting for the familiar tread and only exhaled when he recognized Sheppard's gait. 

“It's me. Put the knife away.”

Ronon sheathed it, surprised that much time had really passed. “You have something.”

“How'd ya guess?”

“Could smell it.”

“Yeah, they kind of stink, but our choices were limited today. A guy charred it over a flame for us, but its still kind of undercooked.”

Ronon's mouth salivated at the thought of food. 

“They call it fernandi. Sorta tastes like chicken.” 

Sheppard ripped off a tiny leg and peeled away the scaly skin. “I’m going to see…if we can dry this out…use it for later,” he said between bites.

The creature’s eyes were on either side of its skull and Ronon snapped the head off the animal, studying the rest of its tiny body. He gulped down a hunk of dried flesh, discarding the flexible bones to the side. They seemed too bendable to be made into tools, but maybe after a few days in the sun, they would harden enough to be useful. Eating gave them both something to do and extended their chances of finding a way home for a few days more.

“I only got an additional half gallon of water and fernandi for the watch. Food's trading for more because the weather is bad where they gather this stuff.”

And the Spraza controlled the other types of food. That was the unspoken problem. It was hard to barter when you couldn't get close enough to the people that traded.

* * *

They rationed the fernandi, one chunk of meat a day. Enough to last a week. They only drank when they ate. Talking passed the time, but neither of them was very big on chatting in the first place. Ronon concentrated on the parts of his body that worked, stretching muscles that trembled, and made Sheppard find him stones large enough to use as free weights. That required painful trips to the back of the cave where there was more room to move, but left him totally dependent on Sheppard to get back and forth.

The cave was getting smaller.

The headaches started on the sixth day, like he'd drunk an entire jug of Athosian wine and Earth whiskey. When they took a piss, they kept it in the second water pouch and used it later. Rationing wasn't pretty, but they did what they had to. 

“The transport should be arriving soon,” Sheppard mumbled, breaking the silence.

Ronon handed him the knife when it was time to leave and watched him crawl out. The freighter was noisy, announcing its presence when it arrived, the engines roaring even louder as it took off. It always went over the mountains, teasing him with fantasies of shooting it down and escaping aboard. He hated waiting, with nothing to do and no way to tell time. When Sheppard returned after what seemed like hours, he let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

Sheppard stumbled inside with fresh bruises on his face, clutching a water pack at three-fourth's capacity. “My detour plan didn't work out,” he coughed.

“You still brought some back,” Ronon reassured him.

He waited the usual amount of time it took Sheppard to give him the bare minimum about what had taken place out there. Sheppard couldn't get through the hordes to the tanks before the water ran low and once he got most of his pouch filled there were too many roaming bandits for one guy to avoid. 

“You need to make an alliance with someone.”

“No.”

“Sheppard!” Ronon growled.

“No! End of discussion.”

“Fine. Then you need another strategy.”

* * *

On day eight the muscle cramps hit, tissues contracting without mercy in his legs and arms, attacking the middle of his gut. When the spasms wracked his calves, Ronon bit down on his leather bracelet, nearly gnawing through it. 

“Hey,” Sheppard whispered, holding Ronon's leg still to keep him from further injuring it. 

Ronon eyes squeezed closed, he balled up his fists, digging his nails into both palms.

The cave provided a cloak for awkward acts of comfort. Sheppard kneaded the affected area to release the cramps, careful of the misaligned bones. “We‘re not getting enough salt, but this should help ease the pain,” he explained, massaging away the knots.

Ronon didn't say anything, sparing them both further moments of embarrassment. 

“I can't find a guide who'll take me to the Tharsqin Sands. Storms won't clear out. During my time in Afghanistan, the _Seistan_ winds could last for weeks or months, so we can‘t count on that for a while,” Sheppard said, slumping against the opposite wall. “I've seen bowls of gruel and soup being swapped around. Means there are plants and other small animals somewhere.”

Sheppard wasn't a tracker and searching a wasteland when you didn't know how was impossible. To give themselves a sense of direction John gave landmarks designations. The settlement was south; their cave was north, nestled under treacherous mountains. “The Tharsqin Sands are west?”

“Yeah. Deep desert. And even deeper desert in the east.”

Which meant exploration to find out. But how? Ronon wasn't going anywhere and no matter how much Sheppard tried to hide how badly he was being affected, the lack of water and food was taking its toll on him. To go for more than an hour’s walk at this stage was to risk not coming back. 

“I'm thinking about searching the hillside for critters since I haven't seen any type of path through the mountain. The incline looks fairly rough, but it might be worth it to check out the surrounding area. And if there’s any rainfall at all, it’ll be at higher ground where the air’s cooler. The key’s collecting it before it evaporates.

The hillside was near the Void.

“Don't,” Ronon found himself warning.

“Why?”

There was no explaining it. Ronon had felt it...felt something or someone close by. Watching. Studying them. Whatever it was, was deadly, could probably strike at will, but hadn't. Not yet.

“Ronon?”

“How far out is it?” Ronon let the question hang in the air, their dire circumstances crushing down upon them. Neither of them could hike the miles they were used to and the hidden possibilities of the Void were beyond either of their means to reach.

They didn't speak the rest of the night, each lost in plans that had little chance of success.

* * *

The next time Sheppard returned from the transports he collapsed and didn't budge. Ronon ignored it when his vision grayed, ignored the terrible pain of moving and inched toward the entrance. “Hey, let me see,” he grunted.

“I'm...good,” Sheppard rasped, pushing Ronon's hands away.

They became identical piles of limbs, both too exhausted to argue or fight. Ronon's pulse raced in his ears; his skin sizzled down the length of his arms and legs. Being this close to the outside was like being in an oven.

Sheppard recovered enough to tug on his sleeve and mumble 'move', and the two of them crawled into the deeper section of the cavern. It took agonizing minutes of stop-drag-stop-drag, but the blessed blackness soon cooled their bodies. Sheppard breathed noisy rapid inhalations, his body trembling from exertion. 

When Sheppard spoke his voice went monotone, like the events had happened to someone else. “The tanker cracked like an egg when it landed and all the water flooded out. People...people panicked. It was a stampede... I...fought...fought my way through.”

When you're treated like a wild animal, you become one. Ronon knew about this. Seven years on an invisible leash made it hard to hold onto your humanity. If you're lucky, someone comes along and offers you a chance at a new life. 

But this was new territory for Sheppard. There was war and there was doing what it took to survive. Ronon smelled the faint hints of blood on Sheppard’s clothes and imagined the carnage during the melee. 

And it was bound to get worse.

* * *

By day eleven Ronon had learned to ignore his stomach's protests. It had gotten used to endless MREs and second helpings in the mess. Going from regular meals of meat and vegetables to ant-patties left a chasm of hunger he hadn't felt in a long time. Even during those rare times of rationing in the midst of a crisis they’d all had the proper nutrition. 

It was a war against his body, trying to keep the pain at bay, but fighting took energy that Ronon didn't have. Sheppard had gone back to barter for food using Ronon's necklaces and bracelets. It took half a day for Sheppard to return nearly empty handed.

The sandstorms kept people from gathering fernandi and the Spraza had intimidated anyone Sheppard tried to trade with. Apparently, Sheppard had injured several members of that gang during his fight and flight after the tanker accident. Ronon suspected John was gaining a reputation out there. For a man to make it on his own for so long was an impressive feat.

They’d run out of fernandi a few days before and would drink the rest of the water that night. Or was it daytime again? 

Ronon closed his eyes, listening to the skittering of insect legs and the rapid breaths of Sheppard next to him. Underneath the noise of the cave was the sound and scent of alien leather. Pretending to sleep, he kept track of the thing biding its time outside. Just waiting for the perfect moment.

* * *

John felt the familiar bumps on his arms, resisted the urge to scrape raw the areas under his knees. Not to mention a certain horrible desire to scratch the other parts that were inflamed.

“Don't rub at it,” he scolded Ronon when he heard the scratching.

“I want to peel my skin off.”

“Yeah. But don't. If you irritate the blisters they could get infected.”

“Don't care.”

“You will.”

“What _is_ it?”

“Prickly heat. Too much sweating and not enough showers. Our sweat glands are plugged up by a skin bacteria.”

Ronon actually snarled and John didn't blame him. The rash had spread like wildfire all over Ronon's body overnight. It was quick like that, spreading in hours, engulfing him in mind-numbing hell. 

“Just try to lie still.”

It was the wrong thing to say because Ronon went a bit berserk. John threw himself on top of him, digging his arms into the bigger man's chest. “Ronon... Ronon!”

His teammate thrashed and screamed, doing anything to create friction and relieve the itch. John barely hung on, his brains a scrambled mess inside his skull. “Stop it!” The last thing they needed was for Ronon to re-injure his leg. “Stand down!”

Ronon went limp, his roar ending in a whimper. “Just...just...”

_Just leave me_ , the scarecrow had whispered with his last breath. Telling John not to save him.

“No!” He rolled onto his side, unwilling to listen. “I'll find us some water. I promise. I'm gonna fix this.”

* * *

There was one goal and one goal only. 

John didn't know how or what deal needed to be made, but he couldn't watch Ronon suffer any further. The lesions were a plague that itched and burned like a fever, ravaging his friend's chest and back, and up his face. When prickly heat got bad it was like a million pinpricks digging into your flesh. Add a broken leg and a body weakened from dehydration and lack of food and the rash became deadly. A simple bacteria could infect the blood system and lead to sepsis if left untreated for too long.

Only a patchwork of redness dotted John's body but moving caused his clothes to chafe his irritated skin. The walk to the transport area took longer and he constantly had to pull up Ronon's pants and roll them at the waist. They had both lost weight the last few days. Not the kind where their ribs poked out. Not yet. But he was all lean muscle without any to spare. Soon that would start wasting away when his body had nothing left. 

Headaches were constant now and his vision fuzzed on the edges. He'd taken too many glancing blows to the skull recently. John knew if he got hit full on in a fight, there would be no getting up any time soon. Images sparkled in the distance, mirages teasing relief of pools and lakes. The desert mirages screwed with your head and messed with your sense of distance. Objects one mile away were usually four. There was no running this time; the plan was to arrive before the freighter landed and find some shade to stay under to gather his strength. Maybe if he didn't expend too much energy before the big brawl, he might win a round. 

John lay on his belly on a nice comfy spot behind a hillside, the rock formations protecting him on all sides. The shade brought relief, but he had nothing to lie on to add a layer between his body and the searing heat of the ground. Yanking off the makeshift handkerchief, he pulled up his baggy shirt to protect his face. Breathing his own foul air was worth removing the heat conducting black material and he kept his mouth closed and took in air through his nose like he was trained. Staying hidden in the shade for a few hours would work as long as he didn't move. 

Waiting was a bitter enemy. 

His ears roared with the pounding of his heart, the rising and falling of his chest too fast. Time lost all meaning. Hours could have been days and he wouldn't be able to tell. He poked his head out of his shirt like a turtle, scouting the area for others with the same idea. Everything was a dark tinted brown simmering through his goggles; the sun was a giant fire in the same exact part in the sky. 

A dot approached from the distance, the fuzzy figure solidifying into a set of ragged clothes. The man stumbled and got up. Stumbled again and crawled into the shadows. John tensed, but the newcomer kept his distance, the guy's breathing harsh and wheezy.

“I...I only want to lie here,” the newcomer rasped.

“There's plenty of sand,” John replied.

The two eyed each other with suspicion then fell into an uncomfortable silence. Talking took effort, but maybe they both needed the company of another voice. 

“It is not coming.”

“Give it time,” came John’s reply.

“I have no time to give.”

John scanned the empty horizon; he’d come out here for water and couldn't leave without it. “Has it skipped a run before?”

“Many times. Sometimes to weed us out. Sometimes to fix problems. We never know.”

John thought of Ronon, of what these people would do with him. “Do they come the next cycle?”

The newcomer laughed then sputtered into a dry choking fit. “No... If they miss a cycle, they do not return until the next three.”

“What do people do?” John didn't mean to say it out loud, but the words poured out of his head. 

“The weak will be hunted down...” the newcomer groaned, grabbing his head. “The others will begin searching soon.”

John squeezed the empty pouch. “I have to keep looking. I can't just lie here.” Standing up caused his world to go white, the dizziness only receding after a few rapid breaths. 

The newcomer turned his head, a gnarled face peeked out between layers of a honey-yellow headband. “Where will you go?” 

John staggered, fighting for equilibrium. For the first time he peered at the man, noticed the long scars where tattoos used to be before the man adjusted the yellow layers of his headgear to conceal them again. “I don't know.” 

“There is nowhere to search.”

“There has to be.”

Yellow headband guy stared at him. “What are you willing to give up?”

“Whatever I have to.”

“Then there is one place.”

* * *

John made his way to the settlement, past the living sectors and barter areas. If he hadn’t known what to look for, he would have missed the entrance. The path twisted behind a wall of jutting rock and the hole was concealed by a natural overhanging of sandstone. Pale blue swirling patterns were splashed above the alcove and when he entered, his spine tingled with unease.

It was pitch black and he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. But he pulled down his eye gear, relishing the hint of moisture in the air. The wall guided him further inside. He counted his footsteps and after eight, two sets of hands grabbed his forearms with an amazing amount of strength and pulled him into a hidden room.

Two men in blue robes crushed his biceps and held him still. It took a panicked heartbeat for his eyes to adjust to the strange indigo glow that emanated from chunks of crystalline rock imbedded in the walls. 

One of the Shan’ka appeared before him, his sickly gray face ghoulish in the dim room. “You here. For...exchange?” he asked, his speech broken and hoarse. 

John swallowed dryly. “Yes.”

The goons never released his arms and manhandled him toward a slab of rock. His feet froze at the sight of the restraints, but he was already being forced to lie on his back. Terror set in as two more robed men joined their pals, each taking a limb and securing it in place.

Leather straps bound his ankles and wrists, and one was tightened across his chest and thighs to keep him still. “Is this really necessary?”

“Yes.”

John willed himself to relax. He’d agreed to this. There was no other choice. One of the Shan’ka pulled out a familiar-looking pouch and hung it on a scale next to him. Then he unfolded a purple cloth onto a smooth stone table and pulled out a piece of tubing. 

Who were these people? Where did they get all this stuff? “You guys rob a hospital?” he joked.

“We begin.”

The Shan’ka rolled up John's sleeve and picked up a long thin object with a sharp tip. It was crafted out of bone and looked like a large sewing needle. “We take two dunkas of your fluids,” he said in a voice of someone suffering a horrible sore throat. “Give you one in water.”

John did the math in his head. Two pints; he could live without that amount. But it was hard to ignore the nagging doubt that that was under normal, healthy circumstances. “Mind telling me how you guys work your magic?”

The Shan’ka didn't respond. John bit his lip; it took two tries to find a vein, but then the thick needle pierced his skin and he tried not to watch while the container started filling with his blood.

* * *

Something that appeared more like a straw than a needle had been jammed into the crook of John's elbow; his blood drained loudly into a container that hung beside him. The room was cast in mystery, the light from the crystals doing little to expose its secrets. The whole chamber felt like a morgue or Doctor Frankenstein's lab with him a willing participant in an ongoing experiment. 

The sound of his blood rattling the container set his teeth on edge. He let his eyelids flutter closed and his body surrender to lethargy and pain. He teetered on the brink of awareness and tried to blink away the halos in his vision.

It was visceral, watching his strength bleed away, as his arms twitched instinctively against the straps. With his energy gone there was nothing left to fight the hunger that he’d kept at bay, and now it clawed at his insides. 

The blood merchant waited quietly nearby, like a vulture, as John’s life continued to pour into the container. A strange figure, nothing like the eerily robed Shan’ka, entered the room and joined the other, leaning in closely to speak.

_They probably think you're unconscious._

“No need for you... to be here,” the Shan'ka's voice vibrated with anger.

“Just making sure you uphold your end of the deal. I think you've been holding back on me lately. Can't have that,” a deep voice replied calmly.

“Our word is law. We... do not break agreements.”

“Why don't I believe you?”

John cracked his eyes open to mere slits, allowing him a view of the fuzzy outlines of the two figures. 

The Shan'ka's words buzzed in and out. “You have...job....keep the...in the Void....”

“Be sure...to....blood samples....”

The conversation faded into the background as white noise filled his head and he fell deeper into the haze. Then a pale, blurry face peered down at him. “We are done. Be still,” the Shan'ka instructed. 

The needle was plucked out and blood quickly welled up into the hole. The merchant turned to one of his blue-robed brethren who silently handed over an object. John noticed the burning smell, but it wasn't until the Shan'ka held up a rod that he realized what was going to happen next. 

“We must seal the wound. No drops should be lost.”

John could barely hold back the scream as the heated tip cauterized the puncture. He'd barely recovered from the sterilization when his bonds were removed and the ground rushed up to meet him. His feet refused to hold his weight, and his addled mind was unable to figure up from down. Vertigo triggered a round of dry heaving, sending him to his hands and knees. 

“The exchange is complete, 45482.” 

“Goody, another assigned number.” Hands hauled John upright, and his boot toes dragged on the floor before barely gaining purchase. “What?... No juice and cookies?”

John wanted to die. Giving blood when already so dehydrated had been a giant risk and he wasn’t coping like he needed to. But he had to walk on his own power in front of the blood merchants or risk being seen as too weak to survive. 

“Easy boys,” he grunted when his left shoulder slammed into a corner. 

Steel-boned hands let him go and he almost failed to keep himself upright before grabbing the wall to steady himself. 

A Shan'ka appeared from out of nowhere handing him a small pouch with blue alien lettering on it. “Your dunka of water.”

John tried not to vomit on the merchant’s boots. “Gee, thanks.”

He funneled all his focus on the pouch, stuffing it in the knapsack he’d almost forgotten was around his shoulder. 

The Shan'ka's opaque eyes bored into him. “We will see you again.”

“Maybe,” John quipped with an answer that would make him right either way. 

As the Shan'ka slipped back into the darkness, John stayed clinging desperately to the wall, knowing if he let go of it he'd be part of the floor. Dizziness overwhelmed him, but he finally loosened his grip and headed for a faint light at the end of the narrow cavern. It wasn't the way he'd come in, but he heard voices and followed them out of the Hall of Horrors. 

The aroma of food hit his nose and his stomach growled and clenched with anticipation of being filled. Seconds later nausea tore through his gut and doubled him over. He stumbled toward a corner, only the wall controlling his slide to the floor. 

_Get a grip, John. You have to do this again tomorrow._

People filled the next chamber he entered. They were bleary-eyed and hopeless, haggling trinkets and other things to anyone who'd listen. Many were turned away and forced to seek the Shan'ka for an exchange. 

His stomach rumbled again and John realized how truly fucked he was. He had one dunka of water and nothing left to trade. They needed food; hell, Ronon needed _a lot_ of food. And medicine, if medicine existed. If there were opiates, there might be other drugs. Staring at his boots, he wondered if his feet could handle the rough desert terrain without protection.

“Did you go in there?” 

John schooled his features, hoping not to show how relieved he was at seeing a relatively friendly face. “Yeah.” He hadn’t seen Lyle enter the cavern. Which meant he had come out the exit. “What were you doing there?”

“I have business with the Shan'ka.”

“Really. What kind?” John's voice was hostile, but he felt like twenty miles of dead road and needed a target.

Lyle squatted down next to him, removed his dirty-orange turban, and scratched his head. He was a tough nut to crack; a face weathered by the sun obscured his true age. The beard misleading. Early fifties perhaps? But under the simple business façade was a quick mind. “I have things they desire.”

The merchant scraped at his scalp absently and John resisted the urge to rub his nails over the red splotches on his arms. “What do they want?”

Lyle's eyes darkened. “Nothing you need to know about.” Then his expression softened into its usual grin, reminding John of McKay when he thought he'd discovered some new kind of tech. “You have anything to trade? You look like you need to,” he said, reaching for John's knapsack.

“Touch it and I'll kill you.”

Lyle chuckled, unintimidated. “Maybe. But I'm not going to take your water, stranger. It is forbidden to steal from an exchange. That belongs to the Shan'ka. You’re only borrowing it.”

“What do they do? Recycle the blood?”

“They extract the water from it. Give you two-thirds of what they harvest and keep the rest. The Shan'ka can take water from almost anything. They are the reason we survive,” he said, almost in admiration. 

John knew all you needed was an elaborate centrifuge of some kind to separate all the parts of the blood. But where did they get the technology? And how?

He rubbed his eyes as pain spiked through his temples. “Why obey them?”

“They control the balance. Without them, there’s not enough water to drink or to use for food or trade. ”

“Supply and demand meets Darwin,” John muttered. 

“Water is the key to life; it is sacred. The Saurin do not bring enough for all. The Shan'ka control the transformation of water. So they control us.” Yeah, there was admiration there, even respect. Lyle rolled another a cigarette with uncalloused hands inexperienced to physical labor.

“Then the easiest way to get water is to kill.”

“We are not allowed to take a life; the punishment is worse than any death. But if one is not of able body, then they can be claimed. Without the Shan'ka we would kill each other and no one would live.”

John wondered if that was the Spraza's real source of wealth. Find the strongest to join their gang and pick off the weak in the process. Like some sick black market trade. “Is that why people don't steal all my water when I get jumped? Some weird honor code?”

“If you’re not able to keep your water, then you deserve to have it taken. But you must be left with just enough for a chance. The desert kills enough; we need people to hunt and farm. To make and barter what is needed. To complete the cycle.”

What if the water didn't show up when it was supposed to? When did the Spraza and everyone else start hunting down the weak for the only source of viable water for drink or trade?

“Do you have a shop around here?” John asked.

“Why?”

“I need food.”

“I don't have any.”

“But you can get it.”

“Yes. And what are you gonna give me in return?” 

John only had one thing. “You can claim me if I die.” The merchant's eyes glinted wildly for a split second and John wondered if this was another bad idea. “You lend me food and water and if I don't live long enough to pay back the debt, you'll make ten times the profit.” Or more. 

“I can provide you enough food for eight cycles. I have no water to spare.”

“I'm offering you twenty, thirty, hell, maybe a hundred dunkas of water!” John growled.

“No, you’re giving me nothing,” Lyle’s voice matched John’s intensity. “None of us should ever expect to see tomorrow. You have my offer. Take it or leave it.” 

Lyle was no fool. John was the one who couldn't bargain, and he could only assume the trader had little room for charity. “What about medicine?”

“Medicine? Herbs are for the weak. To use it would mean--”

“Humor me.”

“You can only get healing herbs from the Jad and eight cycles of food is not enough for that.”

The news was sobering. John would have to find a way obtain that too, but one thing at a time.

Lyle stood up, adjusting his robe. “We both return to the Shan'ka two times in a cycle and plan on walking back out. Is a rare thing, stranger.”

“Since you'll be carrying around my deed, how about calling me Sheppard?”

“Very well, Sheppard. Shall we conduct our business?”

* * *

Returning to the Shan'ka lair revealed little more than the first time. Shan'ka drifted in and out silently—in fact they never spoke aloud to each other. They blended into the darkness, becoming one with it. 

John searched for signs of their technology, scouting ways to sneak back in to steal it. There was no evidence that the Shan'ka carried any weapons, but the burly guards posed enough of a threat. It was a challenge to canvass a layout when he constantly battled lightheadedness. Holding onto the wall, he brushed his fingers over the crystals that illuminated the room, and tried to wiggle one loose to no avail. 

The surface beneath his fingers was smooth, lacking the coarseness of sandstone, and he imagined the rivers that might have carved out this cavern. How old was this world? Eyes peered at him from hidden shadows and his stomach grew queasier. 

“45482. Do you give your water upon death to 78435?” The Shan'ka's raspy voice startled John. Their stealth would make Ronon envious.

“What does a guy have to do to get these first class accommodations?”

Lyle held himself stiffly, arms crossed in front of his chest. He was the poster child for pent up tension and it couldn’t be a good sign that Mr. Laid Back was ready to bolt. The Shan'ka waited and there really was no way to tell them apart. Of course, there was only enough light for a cat. 

“Okay, no small talk. Got it. Yeah, I agree.”

The Shan'ka were deceptively quick. Clammy hands grabbed John's jaw, _again_ , forcing it open and another damn tube was scraped over his tongue. 

“I would've spit on it if you wanted me to,” John griped, trying to wet his mouth and failing. “You can collect DNA from hair. I've got plenty of that.”

The Shan'ka ignored him, wordlessly handing over what had to be a sample of his saliva to Lyle.

“We must go,” Lyle said, grabbing John's arm and dragging him away. 

John memorized the route outside and shielded his eyes when they reached the exit. _Business_ was brisk for the Shan'ka. People carried armfuls of plant material and sacks that wiggled with the struggles of whatever was trapped inside, waiting to be converted into water. 

“You live far? Because--”

The sight of a limp body being dragged by two men caused John's thoughts to go off the rails. His heart slowly regained a normal rhythm after noticing the small size of the unconscious man. It wasn't Ronon.

“You're still alive.”

John's head snapped up at the voice. Damn. He didn't need this. 

Kadar slowly circled him much like an alpha dog. “Went in for an exchange, huh?”

“Just taking a stroll.” John shrugged, resting his hand on his knife. “And you?”

“Making a claim. Something you'll learn soon enough.”

Time was ticking and getting involved in a cockfight wasn't on the agenda. John started to walk away, never taking his eyes off Kadar. With a glance at the _body_ , he noticed the raspy wheeze and the yellow headband of the guy who'd helped him. “Hey, he's still alive.”

“Not for long.”

John got into Kadar's face. “He's still breathing.”

“He cannot stand,” the Spraza said dismissively. “His arm is badly broken. He is not able bodied.”

“He didn't have a broken arm earlier!” 

Kadar’s minions dropped the dying man with a _thunk_. John went for his weapon, but Kadar held his men back. “No need, boys. Wouldn't want any of you to get hurt.” His smirk widened. “This is what happens to the weak, my friend. They fall victim to thieves and scavengers. The Shan'ka will examine this poor _dod._ When they see the severity of the injury, they will follow the law.”

John could barely contain his anger. The odds were the guy would have died soon enough. But that didn't mean that a bunch of thugs should be allowed to speed up the process. 

“Does it make you feel tough to break the arm of someone who can't fight back?”

“It is time to leave. We have business,” Lyle spoke, stepping up before things came to a head.

Kadar played with his braided beard. “Lyle, my good friend. You have dealings with this newcomer? You do realize that he belongs to me.”

It was a risk to announce their association out loud; then again it was obvious the merchant was with him. “We just finished some paperwork on a deal. Crossed all the Ts. Dotted the Is on a future claim.” It was fun to watch the gang leader's face screw up in confusion. “See. In the event of my death, Lyle has claim to my water. This means if I were to have an accident, you don’t get a drop.”

Kadar looked like he was trying to set him on fire from behind his goggles. John didn't want to abandon the guy from the desert, but he looked at his sprawled form and knew things were not quite right. Bending down for a pulse, he felt nothing.

“Going to the transports is dangerous. You might want to be careful. And your pal. Who is watching him?” Kadar pointed at the dead man and his goons picked up the body and went on their way without hesitation.

Just another death in the desert. John reluctantly watched them walk away, fighting the urge to go after them. 

“Very well played, Sheppard. The Spraza cannot claim your water if I own it.”

That hadn't been the point, but he'd take the unintentional benefits. John went to smooth things over when Lyle broke into his personal space. “It might buy you some time. Why risk killing someone if you can't have their water?”

“It has its advantages.”

Lyle got even closer if that was possible, his fragrant oil unable to mask his pungent smell. “Don't forget that it makes no difference. The desert, the Spraza. If you die, it all goes to me.”

It took everything in John's power to give one of his cocky grins. “Unless I outlive you.”

* * *

Medena was a land shrouded in secrets. Desert sands wiped away all traces of her history and a void promised mysteries within a great darkness. Roaming gangs survived using deceit and obeyed the laws of ghosts hidden beneath blue robes. Even Lyle concealed small truths, from his business deals with all those who fought for their slice of power, to the contents inside his cave. He'd forced John to simmer in the heat for an eternity before finally returning with the promised rations. 

Now back in their impromptu ‘home’, John chewed on something that tasted like a cross between a radish and a carrot, the measurement of his life reduced to the contents of a knapsack. He wanted to devour all of the roots and mentally had to tell himself to slow down. His mouth was on autopilot, starting to eat the next vegetable before he’d swallowed the first one. “This actually isn't half bad.” 

Ronon didn't hold back, powering down his rationed portion in minutes. “Where did you get them?”

“Hey, careful. Don't eat your hand,” John said, watching his friend lick the residue from his fingers. 

They both eyed the knapsack, their stomachs loudly digesting dinner. It was a blessing in disguise that Lyle didn't have any meat; eating more undercooked food would likely lead to other health problems. 

John munched on the last root, his belly craving more. “Hope you like this stuff; couldn't get much variety.”

“I've been hungry before,” Ronon reminded him.

“I know.”

“You gave me the biggest ones.”

“You're a bigger guy.”

Ronon slammed his fist on the wall in rage. The simple outburst left him exhausted and shaking, hurting John at his core to bear witness to his deterioration.

John allowed his friend to let it out, to exorcise all that pent up frustration. Then he busied himself cleaning up their area; there was no such thing as privacy, just the silent promise never to mention the things normally expressed alone. 

Ronon had bitten away his fingernails to keep from scratching at his skin, but the rash was active bacteria and practically covered him head to toe. “What did you trade for the food?

John gave his friend the dunka of water. “Drink some of this. I'll get more tomorrow.” 

Ronon's hands trembled while he stared at the alien lettering on the outside of the small container. John steadied the pouch after Ronon almost dropped it, helping him take a few sips. 

“Why aren't you answering my questions?”

Because ignorance was bliss. John dug through the foodstuffs and pulled out a clump of bulbous roots. “Here, try these. They remind me of Brussels sprouts. Hated those as a kid.”

Ronon didn't grab them.

“You need to eat more.”

“I'm not taking a larger share.”

“I'm not asking.” John wasn't about to back down, but Ronon was as pigheaded as they came. “If I was injured or sick, you'd tell me to shut up and eat. Or force it down my throat. Don't make me do the latter.”

“You couldn't.”

But John could. That was the problem. “Please, Ronon. I'll order you.”

“Sheppard.”

“You need to regain your strength. When you're back on your feet, we'll find a way off this rock. I need you on my six, buddy.” Playing the loyalty card was low, but it was the truth. 

Ronon took the sprouts, sniffed the tops and shoved them in his mouth, not caring about manners. “You...gonna...tell me...the truth?” he asked in between chewing.

“No.” 

If he didn't answer, it wasn't really lying.

* * *

John had an intimate relationship with pain, understood the complexity of living with it. Ronon couldn't seduce or make a deal with it. And the one thing about pain: it hated being ignored. His teammate was losing the battle no matter how hard he fought. John never fell asleep; he merely drifted between states of consciousness. They took turns keeping watch, but it was difficult to relax when your friend was in constant agony.

John gathered his things and crawled over to where Ronon lay. “I'm going to get today's water. But I want you to eat before I leave.”

Cutting away a section of his shirt, he used the knife to smash a double sized portion of roots into a baby food substance to make it easier to spoon feed. Breakfast was gathered in the makeshift cloth plate and he helped ease Ronon into a sitting position to eat. 

Ronon used his fingers to scoop the mash into his mouth. “I'm sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.” John gave him the mostly empty dunka pouch. “There's enough until I get back. It‘s better to take a few sips every few minutes than a lot all at once. 

“Sheppard.”

“I'll be fine.”

* * *

The second exchange went as horribly as the first one. John gritted his teeth when the Shan'ka used their version of a band-aid and he threw up the carrot-turnip things all over the floor. The vertigo was so bad that he dug his fingers into his temples, wishing they’d go straight into his brain.

“45482.”

The voice sounded like one of those devices that people with laryngectomies used against their vocal cords. “Gimme a second,” John rasped before dry heaving again.

Crawling on the ground was a good start but left a bad impression. John staggered to his feet; the blue-robed goon squad added to the ring of bruises on his biceps and hauled him up. They took a different way out and for a frightening second John imagined that they were taking him to be embalmed alive.

Dumped outside another chamber, John curled on his side, waiting for the cramps to subside and his vision to clear. 

The orris fumes from the den hit him and the rawboned dealer from his first encounter scurried over like an insect. “Knew you'd be back.”

“Said I wasn't interested.”

John stay slumped against the wall so the dealer took that as an invitation, kneeling down next to him. God, the guy smelled like he rolled around in the stuff. 

“You're hurting, friend. Your belly is sick. Empty. Orris will help.”

“Will...will it help with pain?” 

“If you smoke enough, it'll make you forget all about it.”

John lurched to his feet, his legs buckling from the sudden movement. The dealer grabbed onto him and John shoved him away, losing his balance in the process. “Get off me!” he snapped, clutching the wall. 

What an idiotic idea! Orris wouldn't help Ronon. Even considering the idea was evidence of his poor sense of judgment. John scrubbed a hand over his scruffy beard, resisting the urge to scrape his nails across his rash-covered neck. His entire body felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper, and he yanked down his shirt collar, revealing a blotchy, reddened chest.

* * *

There was something wrong when he crawled back inside their hole. 

It was silent. 

“Ronon? Buddy!”

John scrambled toward his unmoving friend, searched for a pulse that was fast and thready beneath his fingers. Satisfied that the bigger man was alive, he took the opportunity to examine Ronon's broken leg. Carefully, he removed the BDUs that provided the weakest of splints and was horrified at a limb covered in yellow, blue and black bruises; the bone uneven and swollen from not healing properly. 

Damn it!

“Sheppard?”

“Hey, right here.”

Ronon sat up frantically. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Only for a short while. How are you feeling? Think you could eat something?”

“I didn't mean to,” Ronon mumbled.

John gathered a mix of sprouts and roots and started to smash them together, mixing in most of his share for the day, knowing his teammate needed the nourishment.

“Here. Let's see if you've still got an appetite.”

Ronon may have been half out of it from pain, but he still knew how to suck down dinner. Or breakfast. Who could tell at this point? John ate what remained of the day's ration, lost in thought. 

“I need to--”

“You need to rest,” John informed him. “You can take the next shift.”

Fighting injuries without basic treatment had a way of creeping up on the strongest of people. John should have seen this coming. Force of will could only do so much.

Ronon put up a token resistance, mumbling about staying awake before his eyes drifted closed. Confidence was one of John's pillars of strength and it lay crumbled beneath him. 

Lay down. Sleep. Take the simple way out and wallow in the darkness. It'd be easy. But the transport would come tomorrow. Could he carry the water this time? Would be able to fight to get it?

The dunka was still stored away in his knapsack and the last thing he wanted to do was rifle through it. John slipped his hand inside, pulled out the precious water, but his fingers brushed against something that didn't belong there. Many thin sharp _somethings_. Barbed. Like pine needles.

They crushed easily between his fingers, producing a slight oily film and a strong scent. _That skinny rat bastard!_

John was seconds from grinding the orris into dust, but he hesitated, caught between principles and a ravenous stomach. If he owned a rabbit's foot and had a pet leprechaun, his chances at getting a decent amount of water were slim to none. 

Not to mention the limited food supply or the mortgage on his life. Bottom line, Ronon would require more food, more water to have a fighting chance. John glared at the orris. How many times had McKay drunk pots of coffee to keep working? How many times had John used stimulants on duty during an emergency, logging countless hours in the sky or fighting on the ground?

When did the line start to blur?

If a small amount kept the hunger at bay until Ronon could get a fighting chance, then so be it. Counting out a hundred tiny needles, he pinched away ten, slipping the rest inside the thin piece of cloth. Smoking it was out of the question and it wasn't like he had a lighter handy, so lacking another avenue he popped them into his mouth.

They were bitter tasting; he chewed them quickly and washed things down with a swig of lukewarm water. 

Nothing happened. Not that he expected a magical chemical reaction. His head throbbed, every inch of his body felt like a piece of roadkill. The cave granted a certain amount of mercy from the ugliness of outside, and John curled up on his side, the heat lulling him to sleep.

* * *

John walked in a daze, not bothering to run, the transport engines a dull rumble behind his eardrums. The ship, the screaming and shouting were all one large distraction to his mission. If he blocked out all the noise, it made things less real. He was almost at his destination, distance and time a single disconnect. John glanced behind his back, images of helping Ronon eat and drink when he woke up a hazy dream. 

His true nightmare loomed ahead, shrouded in sunlight and miles of sand. His skin was stretched tightly over his body, the newest blisters reminding him of shriveled up blue scales and scabs. He remembered being told not to scratch and restraints that kept him from gouging long trails down his arms. John held out his hands in front of his face and pretended they belonged to someone else. 

It helped imagining that it was a stranger in line at the least crowded faucet. Teeth, nails, and fists didn't hurt as much. John gave as much as he received, returned punches without holding back. He didn't think; he didn't feel. He couldn't afford to. John had to give it his all because he didn't have any blood left to give.

The tank ran dry after he filled his first pouch and he unsheathed his knife. “Move,” he growled.

John reckoned he looked a little wild, a little crazy. Maybe he was. He felt _like_ it. No one wanted to screw with a lunatic whose brain was baked by the sun and who knew how to use a blade.

Except people who cared even less.

They rushed him, three sets of hands. Three uncoordinated attacks. John went limp, surprising the thieves. Once on the ground, their lower legs made easy targets. He lashed out, smashing the nearest kneecap with his boot and jabbing his knife into the closest ankle.

Both men went down, leaving the third. John saw the rock bearing toward his skull and he rolled out of the way. The third thief smashed the spot where his face had been and brought the stone up for another try.

John threw the knife out of instinct and the blade struck the guy in the chest. His two buddies staggered to their feet, took one look at their pal, and limped away as fast as they could. 

The lone thief sank to his knees and stared at the blade protruding above his heart, the front of his robe already soaked with blood. John crouched next to the prisoner who gurgled and coughed a fine spray of crimson onto his shirt. 

“Fin...finish me off.”

“No. I'll...I'll…” What could John do? Call for help? Bandage a four inch chest wound? 

The thief ripped away his goggles, revealing a formerly young face aged beyond his years. “Please...make sure I'm dead... Be...before they...c-come.”

John knew who 'they' were, already saw them off in the distance, the sun reflecting off their blue robes. A twist of the blade would be merciful. 

Without warning the thief thrust the knife deeper into his chest, doing the deed himself. John stared as the man's life poured out of him. The thief took one last gasp and slumped to the ground. Then there was nothing. Just vacant eyes. 

John checked for a pulse and, after finding none, slowly closed the lids. When he looked up, the Shan'ka were there, staring back. John pulled out the knife, wiped the blade onto his pants and scooped up some sand to wipe his hands clean. 

Four Shan'ka made quick work of the body, stripping away the thief's clothes and rolling him up into a tarp. One of the Shan'ka folded up the garments, retrieved the dead man's water pouch and handed them over and once again a smaller figure hurried over, inclining his head to the larger Shan'ka and turned to John. “We have deemed this a clean death. 44782's possessions belong to you,” he spoke in a normal voice.

John slung the second pouch over his shoulder, rolled up the man's clothes and stuffed them under his arm. The Shan'ka gathered up all the blood splattered sand, making sure not a single bit was wasted. 

There were still others out there. Other thieves, other gangs, other desperate people. But they wouldn't go after him today. Not with blood so fresh on his shirt that it would came away wet on his fingers. Not after the Shan'ka transferred another man's water to him. 

John came out here half out of his mind and would return with double the water, double a chance for Ronon's survival. There was less of a disconnect than at the start of his mission. But he wished for that detachment. It'd make the stench of death easier to ignore and would allow him to pretend again.

To keep him from feeling anything at all when he killed a man and happily walked away with his water.

* * *

Ronon always had an eye for patterns. An artist's eye like his mother's. She’d spent a lifetime in front of a canvas, recreating her dreams. And providing for her family, knitting the blankets on their beds and the curtains that hung in the windows.

He’d spent hours helping mix oil paints and dyeing fabrics, soaking up every stitch, every dab of the brush. His mother had taught him how to blend colors to discover new ones and how any mistake could be turned into something beautiful. Her art was the hidden world of the abstract, the secrets between shapes and form. Ronon painted what he saw, the reality of their world. And even took up the needle to sew his own clothes, and the hammer to build the tables they ate on and the chairs they sat in.

All Satedan children were taught the legend of Kosk, their greatest warrior. When Ronon was a kid he’d illustrated those triumphs in blacks and whites. At age ten, he’d looked beyond the words and studied Kosk's battle tactics. There were patterns in war, too. The lines of troop movements, the strategy and models behind engagements. 

Ronon had entered the Academy like all fourteen year-old males. His taskmaster had recognized Ronon's ability to see the fine art of combat. Kell had honed those skills. Fingers that used to weave elaborate designs, learned how to swing the blade, and his palette became the blood of his enemies. 

On his nineteenth birthday, Ronon had chosen to stay with his unit, following in the steps of his father and older brother. 

Lorena couldn't conceal her disappointment, but had still hugged him tightly, trying to hide her tears. She was a teacher and her son had passed on a chance to study at the University. On Sateda most men joined the ranks of military, but those who could beautify their world held a special honor.

_“You could share your gifts with others,” she’d argued._

_“If there's no Sateda, there'll be nothing left to share.”_

_“If nothing preserves our culture, then we might not as well have existed.”_

_“I don't deserve to be a Satedan if I'm not willing to protect my people. Actions define us. Not what we leave behind.”_

It was a shock to wake up from fever dreams, picturing his mother's paintings in the rocky ceiling above. Ronon blinked upwards in the darkness, clawing the ground with the nubs of his fingernails. He wished for his knife, to pick it up and slice off his skin, or plunge it into his leg. 

“Pathetic,” Kell's voice echoed in his head. “We live to serve.”

His duty was to his team, to his CO. It was all he had left. 

Scouring for ants had made him useful. They were all gone now, all the digging and searching for their burrows coming up empty. He was too weak to move or look for them in other parts of the cave, leaving him to slowly broil alive.

Sheppard finally returned to the cave and was covered by the stench of blood. Ronon ignored the blinding pain of his leg and forced himself to sit up. His vision swam, and he blindly reached out for his friend. “Sheppard?”

“It's...it's not mine,” Sheppard rasped, slumping against the cave wall, his breaths fast and shallow. “I've got us an entire thing of water.”

A whole pouch was unfathomable, the difference between taking ten and fifty sips. Ronon resisted the urge to grab it, to squeeze the water down his throat and splash it all over his burning face. Sheppard didn't talk about ways to ration it, or joke about why he had 'to cook'. 

Maybe he'd dreamed of his friend's return, his mind lost between the present and the past. But the stench of death was overpowering in the small confines of the cave, and the nausea abated enough for him to take in Sheppard's sorry state.

“You should take your shirt off and put it outside. Let the sun dry it,” Ronon suggested.

“Good idea,” Sheppard said absently, shrugging out of the baggy thing. “I've got a new one now.”

Ronon didn't ask about the clothes, grabbing the second shirt and scraping the bloodstains over the ground. “You'll need to take this one out there, too.”

Sheppard crawled to the entrance, the sunlight exposing the toll of their lack of food on his leaner frame. He returned bare-chested, leaving nothing to conceal the fresh blues and fading yellow bruises of fights endured alone. It was the first time Ronon noticed the restraining marks around Sheppard's biceps, or the strange healing scars on the inside of his arms. 

“I'll make something to eat,” Sheppard said, after he caught Ronon staring at him.

There was something off about his voice, but Ronon's thoughts were scrambled by his body's plight. Sheppard steadied Ronon's shoulders and held the water to his lips, fed him when his arms trembled too much to lift on their own.

Sheppard fell asleep in the middle of drinking his own ration of water, the dunka balanced between his knees. 

“Wake up,” Ronon grunted.

“M'mm tir'd.”

“I know, but you need to drink that.”

“Yeah.”

But Sheppard didn't budge and Ronon couldn't make him no matter how hard he tried.

* * *

The Great Hall had stood for six hundred years. The Central Plaza had survived the land quake of his Ronon's youth, and even the bridges between the city and country side had endured two civil wars. 

The Wraith had reduced everything to dust in hours.

He would return to Sateda to mark holidays or times of tradition. Other visits were more personal, including the search for the family home his great-grandfather had built. It'd been difficult to pinpoint the exact location. It was just intuition, a tingle in his gut that a particular patch of rubble had been the floor where he’d played as a child. There was nothing left, of course, not even the foundation. 

What had become of his world's greatest treasures? Of its amazing culture? 

A year ago he’d found the art museum where his mother had volunteered and brought back the shattered pieces of several masterpieces. In his spare time he’d tried restoring the paintings, beginning with the one of Sateda's victory at Greadstand that hung on his wall. 

He could have taken up the brush for the rest of his life, but had taken up the gun. Ronon wanted to defend his people; when he failed doing that, he did the next best thing. 

Killed the Wraith. 

“A warrior lives to fight,” Kell had taught him. 

Ronon startled awake, but the fists he tried to swing were too heavy to use.

“Easy, buddy. It's just me.”

Sheppard's face blurred into view and it took Ronon a moment to gain his bearings. For the heat and pain to grasp him in their iron grips. “You're awake...I thought...I wasn't sure...”

“I'm fine,” Sheppard downplayed any worry. 

“What's our status?”

“Two more days ‘til the next transport. There's enough water and food until then.” Sheppard's voice was haggard and his gaze drifted around the cave as if he couldn't focus on a single spot for too long. 

“You don't look good,” Ronon commented.

Sheppard didn't say a word. He grabbed the water pouch and transferred a small amount into the more manageable dunka, running fingers over the alien symbols painted on the outside. Ronon hadn't recalled those before. “Where did you get that one?”

“From a trade,” Sheppard replied absently, holding the dunka to Ronon's mouth and supporting his head to drink.

He tried to control how fast he gulped the tiny dribble and tried not to drink it all. “I'm good,” Ronon lied.

“You need the fluids.”

“I'm not taking a bigger portion.”

“I can get more.”

“From where?” Ronon waited for an answer that never came. 

Instead his CO rummaged through their food supplies. “Hope you're not tired of mashed roots.”

Ronon was tired of being ignored, but lacked the stamina to argue. It was hard enough struggling against all the memories and voices that wanted to drag him away. Digging his palm into his eyes, he sought a center between sickness and injury. 

It was taking a long time for Sheppard to prepare the meal. Ronon propped himself on one elbow and gazed over. “John?” Sheppard looked up from where he'd been smashing the roots repeatedly. “I think they're done,” Ronon told him.

Sheppard stared at the smear of food at the bottom of the knife handle in a daze. “Oh. I forgot what I was doing.” 

They ate in silence for the rest of the meal.

* * *

_Ronon still admired art. Random paintings on random halls. Sculptures that guarded entrances or various gardens. He didn't try to hide this side from others; he just didn't want to share it. There was a difference. It had nothing to do with his past and more to do with a life he'd walked away from._

_When he was on other worlds, his eyes sought out danger, hidden movement, concealed weapons. “Don't trust your eyes,” his training dictated. The Saurin had pinged on his radar from day one. He ignored what they wanted him to see and searched for what they didn't show him. He found himself in a hundred similar rooms, struck by the intricacy of the symbols scrawled all over the walls._

_Every hall and room was minimal and sparse. Each exactly like the other. Except for the designs. Silver lettering etched on smooth black walls._

_“Cool looking, huh?” Sheppard asked._

_“Yeah.”_

_“Something wrong?”_

_“I recognize this,” Ronon said, tracing over the lines._

_“I thought they were just decoration?”_

_“That's what the Saurin told us.”_

_“But?”_

_“It's everywhere. But the closer we get to important parts of the city, the markings get weirder.” Ronon closed his eyes, finger gliding up and over, and into a semi-circle. “You always use a plain background to draw attention to the important stuff,” he said, copying the pattern._

_There, in the third loop. The symbols were connected, one line merging with the next. That was the problem. All the hash marks had been stripped away. He opened fresh eyes and they burned in anger. “I know what this is.”_

_Sheppard tensed next to him and lowered his voice. “What?”_

_“This whole city has the Wraith language written all over it.”_

* * *

Ronon dreamed of ocean waves, of the salt in the air and the bright sun overhead. He shielded his eyes against the orange glare and waded into the waters, the mist spraying his face. The drops were soothing ice cubes over his skin. By cupping his hands, he scooped up the sea and splashed it over his chest. Savoring it all. 

He wanted more.

“Hey, buddy.”

The mainland was engulfed by blackness and Ronon blinked droplets out of his eyes. “What?” he asked, wiping the wetness from his face in shock. 

Sheppard pressed a cloth to Ronon's forehead. “Your fever's spiked. Lie still.” 

The fabric was paradise and Ronon felt himself melt in relief, his raw skin greedily soaking up all the moisture. Except this was water. And they didn't have any to spare. 

His eyes shot open and somehow Ronon snagged Sheppard's wrist. “Don't.”

“Ronon.”

The fire burning beneath his flesh raged through all his pores, but it didn't matter. He channeled what little strength remained into his fingers and squeezed. “You're wastin' it.”

“No. I'm not.”

“Stop.”

“Can't do that.”

Words were pointless so Ronon tightened his hold until his whole arm shook from the strain.

Sheppard pulled the piece of fabric away. 

It took a while before Ronon noticed the strips of cloth wrapped around his forearms and he stared at them.

“You clawed open your skin in your sleep. The sores are infected. I cleaned them the best I could,” Sheppard explained.

Another waste of water. 

“How much do we have left?”

“Enough.”

Ronon didn't buy it. “You used some of your share on me.”

“I can get more.”

That was the second time he'd heard that. “What have you been doing?”

“Whatever I have to.”

* * *

Hands that would have never gotten near him in the past supported Ronon's neck, guided liquid and food down his throat and dripped water across his ravaged skin. He growled and snapped at them and they still ignored his wishes to leave him alone.

When the hands were gone, silence swept Ronon away. Silence was peaceful, but peaceful wasn't good. Peace was the feeling danger hid behind, to attack when you weren't looking. The quiet stretched on too long and he opened both his pupils, focusing on a familiar shape huddle nearby.

Sheppard was curled on his side, hands wrapped up in the folds of the other shirt to keep from scratching his own skin. He wasn't asleep; his body trembled and jerked when the muscle cramps struck repeatedly. Normally Sheppard dragged himself to the back of the cave to suffer silently in the dark. The fact that he hadn't, that lethargy had beaten back Sheppard's intense need for privacy scared Ronon. Of course his team leader hadn't noticed Ronon's emergence from his fever's stranglehold before slipping away again. 

Ronon could tell he'd slept for a long time because his stomach had grown accustomed to the half-days between meals. It took a long time to rouse Sheppard and panic squeezed his chest.

Ronon argued when Sheppard reapplied the wet strips of cloth to his arms. The whole thing felt like a dream and he fought to stay awake, to overcome the comfort his friend tried to provide. Sheppard didn't understand the danger it represented, or feel its claws dig in deeper.

The transport engines roared overhead and Ronon woke to Sheppard's quick squeeze of his arm, “I'm going to get our rations.”

Ronon managed to haul himself up by using his arms and pressed his cheek to the wall, wondering where the days went. Pressing down on the injured bone in his leg, he welcomed the sharp influx of pain. It was a temporary fix, one that consumed one type of energy over another. But it worked and he kept doing it to keep his mind's sluggishness at bay.

He was more alert when Sheppard returned, aware of the newest signs of battle. 

“Hey,” Sheppard greeted, his chest heaving as if he'd run back the whole way. “Good to see you up.” 

“Sit down,” Ronon replied.

Sheppard didn't comply right away, eyes darting around the cave. His friend had changed out of Ronon's baggy trousers; the stranger's pair fit more snugly around his waist. Sheppard's blade was stained red, matching the random streaks on the front of his shirt and down the sides of his pants. 

“Any of that yours?” Ronon asked.

“No.” Sheppard shook his head as if to clear it. “I didn't kill anyone,” he said as an afterthought, slipping down to the ground. His normally sharp eyes were dull and flat. “At least I don't think I did.”

“Were you jumped?”

Sheppard still held the knife, the vein in his throat throbbing madly. “I don't know.” His expression was more confused than scared and when he glanced at Ronon, his voice was devoid of any emotion. “It doesn't matter. Does it?”

Ronon didn't know how to reply to such an unSheppard-like question. So he didn't, pushing on the broken bone until his jaw clamped shut to keep away the building scream. 

“I almost got another full pouch...I.” Sheppard paused. “There were some problems getting near the tank but I made them go away.”

The pain thing wasn't working anymore no matter how hard he pressed. Ronon closed his eyes in defeat, cursing himself for failure. Sheppard stayed propped up against the cave wall next to him, breathing way too fast. One hand still held the knife in a death grip; the other was balled into a trembling fist.

Ronon couldn't help with whatever was ever wrong with Sheppard and didn't even have enough energy to fight the illness that was starting to win.

* * *

The fever spiked no matter how much water Sheppard wasted on him. Ronon begged him to stop, pleaded to save the rest. “You're killing yourself,” Ronon rasped.

Sheppard looked half-dead and half insane. His wild beard and disheveled hair stuck out in all directions, giving him a manic appearance. The heat rash had spread from his neck to his cheeks, and his eyes were sunken into his skull. 

“I'm fine.”

“I don't want you...to die, too.”

“You're not gonna die.”

“Yes, I am. You need to leave, make an alliance with someone.”

“I'm going to get you medicine,” Sheppard said, shaking Ronon's shoulder. “You hear me?”

“With what?”

“I'll find something.”

Ronon grabbed Sheppard's hand. “Don't.” There wasn't enough moisture left his eyes to produce tears. “Please, John.”

Sheppard wouldn't listen to him and gathered his knapsack for his trip outside. “I have an idea, don't worry. Hang on, buddy,” he said, leaving.

Ronon screamed at his friend's retreating form.

Kell crouched beside him some time later. “Who are you?” he asked in disdain. “Where is Specialist Dex? Where is the Satedan whose face you wear?”

“I'm right here!” Ronon yelled back.

“No, you're not. Dex wouldn't be lying there. He'd be fulfilling his duty. He would do what's right.”

Ronon had always watched Sheppard's back, willing to follow him to hell. They were there now, caught in the roaring flames. But they weren't fighting the way it should be. Ronon was trapped on one side of the flames and Sheppard wouldn't take the exit on his. 

Sheppard needed to run away, but the fires were going to burn him alive if he didn't move.

Ronon knew Sheppard would die trying to save him. 

And he couldn't allow that to happen. 

Ronon screamed and yelled and cried over every inch he dragged his broken body. The pain felt good; it gave him the motivation to keep pushing and keep moving. He’d never strayed too far from the mouth of the cave, needing the light that crept in to see by. There was no telling how long it took him to reach the opening or the number of times he almost passed out from trying.

There was bound to be something sharp enough out there to do what he needed to. If not, the sun would take care of things quickly. Sheppard would need the cave and Ronon didn't want punish him even more by having to remove his body. 

He hoped deep inside John would forgive him, that he wasn't taking the coward's way out. Ronon would rather die with a gun in his hand, but if his last act saved Sheppard, then the death was honorable. 

It was hotter and brighter then he remembered it. Ronon used his last bit of strength to grip the nearest hunk of rock and closed his eyes and took a deep breath before completing the act he set out to do.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

John didn't have a plan of attack. Or even have a target. There was one goal and multiple obstacles in the way of obtaining it. The Jad were the drug peddlers and he didn't have the currency to buy the needed miracle cure. 

Running became stumbling mostly, then walking fast. It was stupid, expending the vapor fumes of his energy levels, but he was racing a ticking clock. He lost his footing and fell to his knees, nearly tearing a hole in his pants. He rested his cloth-covered forehead on the dusty ground, but the heat seared through the fabric and he forced himself back to exhausted feet. This desert was like the inside of a hot air balloon and he couldn’t breathe fast enough or stop his heart from trying break out of his chest. 

And everywhere he gazed, all the surfaces reflected the same intense grainy glare. “Desert snow,” he whispered.

“Reflective heat gain results from direct sunlight and blowing wind. Stay out of direct exposure if possible,” his desert survival instructor had warned once. 

Caves jumped and shimmered closer then further away, concealing their true distance. “Know where the nearest pharmacy is?” he asked some random soul passing by. The guy pulled his robe around his haggard frame and scurried away. “Guess not,” John mumbled.

More people ran when he got near them and that's when he looked down at the knife clutched in his hand, stared at it in fascination. When had he pulled that out? The only available weapons for most people were their fists. Knives were rare and if you owned one, you wielded a blade of bone or rock. Ronon's was five inches of menacing steel. 

“You should be careful around here.”

John spun around, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Yeah?” 

“People talk about you,” the blob of cloth replied.

“Really? What do they say?”

“That the heat has fried your mind.”

Good. Let them think that. His trips outside had been more fuzzy of late. If people thought he was a bit off then it'd make going to the transports easier next time. “You were on the ship with me,” John said, recognizing the voice in a moment of clarity, still unable to visibly focus on the person in front of him.

“That was in the past. Before I raised voice in protest for the good of my people. Now I'm no one. I belong to the Spraza.”

“And did they let you off your leash?”

“You should go. You've scared some, but who knows how long that'll last.” 

“I need something,” John replied, swaying with the breeze.

“Don't we all.”

The ex-convict was gone and his words were scattered with the wind. John followed the path he set on, unsure where to go or what to do. The landscape melted into the curves of an hourglass, the caves crumbling before him. The cascading sands threatened to sweep him away; silica got under his clothes, scraped against his abused flesh. The heat grew hotter and he fought the urge to rip off his handkerchief and goggles. 

He searched for the painted dots of various alcoves for signs of merchants and found blue swirling patterns.

And two pale opaque eyes staring at him. “45482. Are you here for your claim?”

“Sorry, must have the wrong door,” he said, turning around, the world spinning with him. 

But the sands of the hourglass were too powerful and his legs gave out. John felt himself falling and floating and then everything went black.

* * *

Death wasn't what he’d anticipated. John had imagined flames, screaming, or nothing at all. Not the rain clouds or the millions of tiny droplets that were splashing all over his body. Beads of water ran over his ribs and pooled around him. 

It was nothing but water on skin. 

Which meant he wasn't wearing any clothes.

There were moving blue robes and cold-as-ice fingers. Then the hands disappeared and it rained down even harder. Sheets of water beat down on him and overrode all rational thought as his body soaked up every possible drop.

A shroud of moisture covered his face, muting his senses to pure touch. He'd forgotten what water smelled like. Sweet and crisp, like a spring storm. 

Whatever spell had been cast slowly slipped away, and he awoke on top of a piece of stone. John bolted awake and squeezed his eyes closed against a dizzy spell. A thin sheet slipped over his bare chest and he stared at it in confusion. “What the hell?” 

“Your claim is waiting.”

John squinted at the Shan'ka. “What are you talking about? What happened to me?” 

His vision adapted to the abject lighting as he searched the area. It was like a damn autopsy room. There were drains in the floor, hoses hung down from the ceiling, and he sat on top a slab of polished rock in the center.

“Follow me,” the Shan'ka instructed.

“Where are my clothes?” John slipped off the slab and was hit by a sudden head rush. He swallowed to keep his stomach contents at bay and was surprised when his mouth generated saliva.

His stuff had been folded neatly in a pile on a crude stone platform. He changed into his boxers and pants, shocked that they were soft and clean. Glancing down at his stomach and forearms, he noticed the inflamed rash was a rosier pink instead of a violent red. The Shan'ka waited in the corner and John quickly pulled his shirt over his head, wondering when it had gotten so large.

His toes poked through the holes in his socks, but he laced up his boots then followed his escort into the halls, worrying about what awaited him. 

How long had he been here? Why was he alive? Maybe it wasn't too late to make a run for it. 

“Wait here.”

Waiting wasn't one of his strong suits but it wasn't like John had any night vision goggles. Though they wouldn’t do him much good against people who thrived in the dark. John glanced behind him out of instinct and almost jumped out of his skin at another Shan'ka standing next to him.

It might have been the same one who'd taken his blood days before. It was hard to tell. None of them had distinctive markings – they were all in similar height, all had the same vacant stares and ashen skin. “This is the right to your claim,” the Shan'ka's voice hummed, handing him a ring of stones.

John stared at them. “I don't understand.” Then his thoughts drifted back to the desert.

_“47825's possessions belong to you.”_

The guy who had tried to rob him. The one he'd killed. 

“You're giving me someone's water.” 

“You decline the claim?” the Shan'ka before him questioned. 

“No,” John replied, gripping the string of stones. Nausea ripped through his gut and he had to choke down the bile. He didn't know what made him sicker, that he owned a person's life fluids or the fact he could have come here earlier to receive them. Looking back up, the resident embalmer was gone. “Great. What do I do now?”

A man of smaller stature and eyes of normal blue walked over. “You can gather your claim.”

John was sick of being startled. “Who are you?” 

“37194,” the man replied in a normal voice. He wore the blue robes of the Shan'ka and had the same winning personality, but didn’t appear to be one of them. 

“You go by anything else?” John was treated to No Name's back, forced to follow him like some toady. “Where are we going?”

“To the depository.”

The Shan'ka's lair was a sprawling set of catacombs and John used the walls to guide himself through the tunnels. His muscles trembled from weakness and he breathed a sigh of relief that the trip was mercifully short. 

“Anytime you need access to your water, come here.”

The hall opened up to a hole carved out of the wall. A Shan'ka loomed on the other side of the 'window' and stood in front of industrial type of large tank. John made out the outlines of other structures, their true size and purpose obscured by shadows. A crystal was strategically placed over the four faucets lined up on the left side of the window. They had modeled their water storage after the transports. “This is where we retrieve the water?”

“Yes.”

There was undoubtedly a pipeline system that circulated the water that was collected in the tank or tanks in other areas. Maybe it was all centrally stored in one location and the Shan'ka kept detailed records of individual claims. “What if I want to give part of my water to someone else?” If the Jad did have the herbs, John wasn't sure he'd be able to carry the amount of water required to buy them.

No Name pulled out a necklace of stones from around his neck. “Each stone has the amount of water etched on them. Simply come here to collect, minus a small percent.”

John studied the writing etched into the pieces of rounded sandstone he'd been given. “And if someone steals them?”

“It does not matter to us. All water belongs to the Shan'ka.” 

Another reason to join a gang and avoid being robbed. 

John clutched the ring of stones and counted ten of them. “How much is each one?”

No Name pointed to the first nine identical markings on John's ring. “These are sumas.”

“And that is?”

“Each one represents one of the containers you were given when banished here.”

A gallon. He had nine whole gallons. “And this one?” John indicated the last stone with a slightly different second set of markings.

“That stands for half a suma.”

“The man I killed, he was...” John struggled for the words. “He was harvested for nine and a half containers?”

“He was harvested for eleven point eight sumas, but you were docked the Shan'ka's ration and the water used for your cleansing.”

“Cleansing?” 

“Your skin was washed and your water replenished.”

John pulled up his sleeve. Fresh bruises marred the inside of his forearm from more than one attempt to find a vein and right above that his elbow sported the newest burn mark. It hadn't been a nightmare. He'd been treated to crude IV fluids and a prison shower. “And my clothes? They were cleaned?”

“As part of the cleansing.”

“Why? Why was I cleansed?” John demanded. This didn’t cure him of dehydration and poor nutrition, but it gave a lift his body had desperately needed. What Ronon needed. What about all their stupid rules and the unwilling sacrifices made by so many? “Whatever happened to being of unable body?”

“Do you question the Shan'ka?”

“I question why others died and I was saved!”

“If you are not going to take any water, then you must leave.”

John was furious. Furious and confused and past the breaking point. Suddenly No Name was shoved against the wall, John’s knife pressed against the man's beating carotid. 

“Return to your duties,” No Name said coolly to the moving shadows. John didn't know how many Shan'ka goons had been poised to strike and he didn't give a damn. He never let up on the steel on No Name's throat. “Go ahead. Slit it wide open,” the man breathed.

It was the first real emotion No Name had shown. John traced the artery with the tip of the knife, resting it under the man's jaw. “Why wasn't I killed?”

“Because the Shan'ka were asked not to.”

“Who asked the Shan'ka to spare me?”

“Only they know.”

John had to hold it together. Ronon needed this cleansing, but there was no getting him across the desert. John had the means to barter for medicine now and he'd have to carry back whatever water was left to treat his friend. Releasing No Name, he put his knife away, and gave them both air to breathe. 

No Name reverted to a neutral expression. His complexion was pale from lack of light, but not sickly white. No Name was in his early twenties, his hair shaved like so many others, and from his build he was far from starving.

“Why are you here?” John asked.

“To survive. The Shan'ka needed someone to help them deal with the outside world.”

“But they run things. They're the law.”

“They're prisoners. Like us. They just happen to maintain order.”

Who were the Shan'ka before their exile? What crimes had they'd been accused of? How had they retained such technology or did they build it? Find it? “But they're not like us,” John said. 

“No.”

“What do they need _you_ for?”

No Name was neither defensive nor angry. “I communicate with the other prisoners.”

John's eyes lit up. “You're the one who's done most of the talking outside.”

“Yes, the Shan'ka do not use words with each other so they dislike using them with the rest of us. They will if needed, but most of the time I provide the bridge.” 

“They're telepathic?”

“I do not know.”

John was getting more questions than answers. But the Shan'ka were the real mystery in this hellhole. “Why do they hang out in the dark?”

“Because they cannot see like you and I.” 

John didn't understand. He'd seen them out in the desert. They were always everywhere. Watching and waiting. “The Shan'ka are blind?” 

No Name's nerves of steel were melting and he shifted nervously. “They have other senses. Sight is irrelevant to them.”

Like radar, John thought. “Where do they come from?”

“I do not know. You must leave.”

No Name grabbed John's shirtsleeve and tugged him through the tunnels and outside the Shan'ka's domain. 

No Name spun John around and stared at him with eyes not used to the light. “Search for Tobias; he sells cleaning powder. Mix it with a small amount of water and it can replace normal bathing. It helps keep illness at bay.”

John wasn't used to help without strings attached. “Thanks.”

“I must go.” No Name took two steps, but paused. Without turning around he spoke over his shoulder. “Misha.”

“What?” John asked, confused.

“It was what I went by before the Shan'ka took me.”

* * *

The main trading area bustled with activity. Groups haggled over shrubby plants and various roots. The storms over the Tharsqin Sands must have cleared because people carried fernandi on poles to entice more buyers. Most people left John alone. Others reacted oddly around him, scrambling to get out of his way. 

There were no Spraza around and the merchants actually gave John eye contact. One with a shirt of orange and blue patches held up rodents covered with thin curly spikes. “You! How about some lompson?”

“Who needs lompson? I have trumalites,” another trader offered.

John stared at a caterpillar-like creature the length of a snake. It was still alive with a fuzzy yellow body and thousands of wiggling legs. “Let me guess. Tastes like chicken?”

Some enterprising man had set up shop right on the outskirts of the cave, harvesting the sun with a piece of glass to cook dinner. John walked away from the aroma, surprised that such crawly critters had triggered his appetite. 

Food was on his shopping list, but only after he knew what he'd have left over to spend. No, his destination was a smoky den and he lurked outside the entrance for his target. People drifted in and out, the harshness of their daily lives driving them to seek out a chance to forget it all. John didn't have to wait long before a certain rat bastard dealer emerged. John didn't pull out the knife, didn't rant or rave. He simply walked over to the skinny man and blocked his path.

John smiled and used his calmest voice. “Take me to Ziffka.”

The crackhead giggled, his mind rotted from orris. How did one scare such an individual so far gone? John narrowed his eyes and whispered in the dealer's ear. “Take me now. Or I'll drag you into the Void.”

Mentioning the Void put fear in people's minds. John had yet to find out why. The drug dealer backed up until he smacked against the wall. “Y-you wouldn't?”

“How about now?” John said, grabbing a gaunt shoulder. 

The man fought. John twisted scrawny arms around the man's back and marched him forward. The dealer screamed and dug in his heels. “No!...Wait!! I'll take you to Ziffka!”

The lowlife led John away from the den and toward the planet's underbelly. No group lived too far from the central market to keep travel at a minimum. It was a hard lesson to learn, but his and Ronon's proximity to the Void was probably the only reason the Spraza hadn't tried to hunt them.

Even the short walk was brutal. A few fluids and a bath weren't enough to solve all his problems, but the dizziness and headache were easier to handle. 

The Jad hideaway was literally a hole in the ground in the middle of nowhere. John would have passed right by it alone. “This way,” the drug dealer said, going inside.

It was the perfect defensible position, similar to the tunnels of Vietnam or Afghanistan. The Taliban used to wait for soldiers to crawl through then stabbed their enemies through the shallow walls with sharp sticks or knifes. Or simply waited ‘til you exited right into their hands. 

The passageway was narrower than a ventilation shaft and had a gradual decline. John shimmied his way down and dropped into an underground room. The walls were covered with gouges from tool marks and the floor was an inconsistent level. It was an accomplishment to carve out such a dwelling; not only did it give them a strategic advantage, but it made the temperature far cooler. The Jad probably had a whole network of these tunnels everywhere. Popping in and out of various holes made robbing people an easy sport.

Eight Jad with sharpened shards of rock surrounded John before he took a step forward.

“Hey guys.”

“You want to die?” one of them asked.

“I'd rather make a trade,” John replied.

It was an awkward standoff of silence and he took the opportunity to size up the crowd. His eyes strayed to the reason he could see. There were torches mounted near the entrance and from the odor, the material burning used an oil to sustain the flames. He needed to find some of that. 

The Jad all looked like rejects from the movie “300.” Most were shirtless with ratty shorts or loincloths made of linen. A few still wore loose robes of various drab colors. Many had necklaces of stones indicating the amount of water they each owned. He'd never noticed the jewelry with all the clothes covering them before. The gang loved ink. Arms, chests, and even a couple backs were covered by crude tribal designs or artwork. 

A slender man of lean muscle confronted the dealer, placing hands with green symbols tattooed over his knuckles around the lackey's neck. “Why did you bring him here?” 

The skinny dealer grappled at the fingers squeezing his throat. “He...he was gonna take me... into the Void!”

“Only the insane go to the Void,” the angry gang member growled. “It was an empty threat.”

“But he's the one who lives out there,” another voice spoke up. “Stays in the caves right below it.”

The Jad goon set his sights on John. “How do you survive out there? What's your secret?”

Don’t give an inch. “I'm not about to tell you,” John growled low in his throat, matching a pair of blazing eyes.

“The Shan'ka aren't here. They won't learn what we'll do to you.”

“Is this any way to treat a guest?” Ziffka slinked over, smoking another rolled piece of orris. He wore baggy linen pants of various browns with a dark rope as a belt that didn't do much to conceal his lanky form. He was taller than John by a few inches, but it was all long limbs. His dingy white shirt was unbuttoned, revealing multiple necklaces of water stones that hung down to his belly. As the head honcho, he kept most of his gang's water. “Pullo, why don't you tend to today's collection?”

Pullo spat on the ground in front of John's boots. “I'll see you around.”

It didn't take a rocket scientist to know that wasting your water like that was a huge insult. Ziffka shook his head. “Pullo has anger issues,” he chuckled. “So, we meet again.”

“Thought instead of robbing me, we could complete a normal business transaction.”

“People who come uninvited usually learn to regret it,” Ziffka spoke. 

John shrugged. “Didn't have time to get on the guest list.” 

“You're not allowed to talk,” one of the minions growled.

“Easy. This man has proved resourceful at the transports and with a blade,” Ziffka crooned. “Loners are dangerous. Relentless. And this man hasn't let anyone stand in his way.” Ziffka inhaled a long drag. “He has fighting spirit.”

“He's nothing,” another member shouted. 

“No, he's something. He's an enemy of the Spraza. Which makes him a friend.” Ziffka exhaled smoke in John's face. “What can I do for a friend of the Jad?”

He'd graduated to a _friend_. This was the perfect opportunity to establish some type of _I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine_ arrangement. But not today. “I need herbs.”

“Herbs?” Ziffka seemed surprised. “For what?”

“For infection and fever.”

The flames from the torches made the stripes of green paint glow across the gang leader's face. “Medicine is for the weak. Those who need it are not of able body.”

“I don't care.”

“We don't have much anyway.”

“But you do have some?” John's voice gave too much away, but he couldn't help it. It was the first ray of hope.

“Yes. There are two plants from the deep Tharsqin Sands. We found them cycles ago. They will cost eight sumas.”

“Eight?” That was nearly all John had.

Ziffka eyed John head to toe. “Would you prefer another form of payment?”

“Four,” John countered, ignoring the once over.

Ziffka's easygoing manner evaporated and his voice dipped to a menacing tone. “Six. To bargain more is to insult me.”

Six would barely leave him enough for food and water. John ran through the math while the other Jad closed in. “Deal.”

Ziffka sent a couple men to gather the needed herbs and gestured at a crude chair a few meters away. “We have much inventory to search through. You should relax.”

“I'll stand.”

“You should sit.” 

It wasn't a request and this was hostile territory. John relented, slumping onto the pile of rock. He didn't want to chitchat, not when Ronon had languished alone for God knew how long. “I don't mean to be rude, but I have other business to conduct.”

“We always have time to enjoy orris. You need more, don't you?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“I still have some.”

One of the man's cronies whispered in his boss's ear. “If you’ll excuse me,” Ziffka said, leaving.

It was the first moment John had to think since chasing after the impossible. Closing his eyes, he held his head in his hands, ignoring the presence of the other Jad. In two days he had to go out to the transports again. Then three days after that. And three after that. Not to mention finding a better way to gather more food and water.

The odds of escaping from this hell grew larger and larger, but he had to believe it would happen. It was up to him to make it happen.

“Here are your herbs,” Ziffka said, handing him a swatch of fabric stuffed with leaves. “And this is a token of friendship for when you run out. No charge.” The drug leader slipped him a different piece of cloth, filled with familiar needles. “Shall we settle the payment?”

John shoved all the herbs into his pocket. “Let's do it.”

There were three sumas left for the rest of the supplies and he still had to carry everything back. John crawled through the seemingly endless shaft back outside and surveyed the long journey home.

He just hoped Ronon could hold on until he returned.

* * *

If you smashed a person's nose in just the right way, with the right force, you drove the bones into his brain. 

Ronon swung the rock toward his face with all his might, but his hand ricocheted off something that blocked it and the stone fell. 

“There's gotta be an easier way? Don't you think?”

Ronon's eyes flew open. He was still propped up against the rock and someone blocked the sun's burning rays. Fingers gripped Ronon's wrist and Ronon pinned the guy's hand to his chest while lashing out with his left fist. The stranger dodged the clumsy blow and easily freed his other arm.

“You're kidding, right? You wanna fight?”

Ronon howled, launching himself at the other man in pure rage, pure insanity, and found open air. His leg crumpled beneath him and pain engulfed every fiber of his being. Pain was an old friend and he rose onto trembling elbows searching for his target, seeing only bursts of whites and yellows without his goggles.

“Show yourself!” Ronon demanded with a strangled voice.

“And if I do?” a voice taunted behind him.

Ronon flung himself onto his back. “I'll kill you.”

“Really?” A blurry face loomed over Ronon's. “How?”

Ronon snarled, but he had nothing left. No strength. No energy. No fight. His entire body trembled in anger. 

“Look at you. Fuming away. Wasting all that energy. And for what?”

The voice stood over him. It was all sunspots and searing beams of light. Ronon shielded his eyes with his arm, catching glimpses of movement. The voice didn't stand still, going from one spot to another. 

“I can stay out here all day. Got a full pack of water, nice goggles, cool clothes,” the voice said on Ronon's left side. “I think it might bother you, though.”

Ronon recognized the man's scent. Leather boots mixed with metal and ash. “You're the one that’s been watching us.” 

His foe moved, never staying in the same spot for more than a few seconds. Ronon waited for him to get closer. 

A set of goggles suddenly appeared in front of him and Ronon squinted against the sunlight reflecting off of them. “Yeah, I've been observing you.”

Ronon went to head-butt the man's skull and found a long metal knife under his throat. 

“What's it going to be? Want me to finish what you started?”

The blade dug into Ronon's fevered skin while warm blood trickled down his neck. 

“Does it feel different? When it's not your own hand?”

Ronon stared defiantly. 

“You don't seem too eager to die now. I'd think someone like you would prefer this. Less guilt.”

Ronon wanted to reverse the blade straight into the guy's chest. How dare he question his intentions? 

“Oh, I get it. It was about honor?” 

“You don't know anything about honor!” Ronon growled.

“The math's easy. Two people. Not enough supplies. Those are the rules. The strong survive. The weak lie down.”

Ronon felt his life burn out through his broken skin. All his strength boiled and evaporated inside his blood. There’d be only one shot. So he’d let his enemy breathe and talk until the perfect moment. 

“I wonder. Your friend, the one whose life you were tradin' yourself for, what's he gonna do? Join a gang? Go on alone?”

“He'll do whatever it takes,” Ronon replied in all conviction.

“Do you know what it's like at the transports? To kill or be killed. To trample over the backs of others?”

Ronon didn't need a lecture about survival, Sheppard, or loyalty.

“What about trading one fluid for another? Ever exchanged your blood for water?”

Ronon couldn't listen to the things Sheppard had done for him. He didn't want to know how deep his failures ran.

“Tell me, when the only thing your friend's lived for no longer matters, will he lie down, too?”

“Shut up!” Ronon snarled.

“Maybe he won't. Maybe the Spraza will finally get their vengeance. Maybe the desert will.” The stranger peered even closer, his face a whitewash against the sun. “It doesn't matter because you never planned on sticking around to find out.”

“Fuck you,” Ronon cursed, using his favorite Earth word.

“Maybe I'll wait for him to return. With you gone, I'll find plenty of uses for him.”

Ronon was trapped. The knife never wavered from his throat. If he attacked, he'd die. That was acceptable. But there was no guarantee he'd kill his enemy and he wouldn't allow this man to harm Sheppard. “What do you want?”

“What makes you think I want anything?”

“Because you haven't killed me yet.”

“No, I haven't.” The stranger popped his neck. “I'm gonna hang out in the shade. You do whatever you want. I'll even leave that rock nearby, just in case.”

The stranger removed the blade, and Ronon resisted the urge to strike again. This guy wanted something. He could have killed him and Sheppard at anytime, but hadn't. The stranger wandered toward the shelter, leaving Ronon to drag himself painfully back.

The cave was a welcome relief from the blazing sand and air. Using the wall to lean heavily on, he pulled himself into a sitting position. Ronon panted, trying to catch his breath. Things spun dizzyingly around and he bit his bottom lip to keep things under control. 

“Here.” The stranger tossed him a water container. “I've got plenty.”

Ronon didn't hesitate drinking it and had to keep himself from chugging the entire thing. Taking his fill, he allowed the water to dribble down the cracks at the corners of his mouth and squeezed the rest over his inflamed face. Then finally, he opened his eyes and found the man staring back at him.

The demon of the Void sat comfortably against the opposite wall, his legs crossed at his knees. A gray robe fell loosely over a broad set of shoulders with traces of a black shirt peeking through the front. His pants were dark and snug, as if dressing for the desert was an afterthought. The robe was unable to hide muscles that saw regular exercise and healthy meals. There were no tattooed gang signs, and the stranger studied Ronon through his goggles.

“What do you want?” Ronon demanded again.

“Do you think you have anything I'd want?” The stranger laughed. “I just wanted to see those dumb enough to live near the Void.”

“You've been watching us for a while. I'm sure you know why.” Ronon didn't need to be reminded about how heavy a burden he'd become. 

The stranger contemplated his reply, playing with his knife to capture the light from the entrance. “I've never met anyone willing to die for another.”

It was an unexpected answer and one he didn't put much stock in. Ronon usually didn't talk to his enemies. Now he didn't have a choice. Kell had an old saying: The only good enemy was a dead one. And if you didn't kill him, find out all the intel you could---then kill them.

“You live in the Void?”

“Yep.”

“Everyone seems to be scared of it.”

“That's why I like it.”

“What's there?”

The stranger was done playing with the sun's reflection over the ceiling and tapped the end of the giant blade against his knee. “A night that never ends. And mountains that hide the beasts there.”

“The Wraith?”

The stranger snorted. “The Wraith aren't beasts. They're just good hunters.” Surveying his surroundings, he stared into the back of the cave. “No, the demons that lurk in the Void are much worse. They don't care who they eat for dinner.”

“But they don't eat _you_?”

The stranger whipped his head around at the sarcastic remark. “They'd have to catch me first.”

Ronon wasn't getting anywhere. It was like talking in a circle. Questions floated in his head, drifted off his tongue. It was difficult to remember what to ask next. One second he was talking to the stranger, the next he was gone. 

In a blink of an eye the darkness had swallowed the man whole. 

“Maybe he was never here,” Kell whispered.

Ronon listened for sounds and heard silence. He turned toward the entrance, a hole so small no one could walk out without scraping their hands and knees.

There it was again. The scent of rust and winter. Ronon turned the other way and came face to face with eyes of icy blue. “Instead of lying around all day, you should really explore more. You never know what you might find,” the stranger told him, putting his goggles back on.

The stranger was back to sitting across him, cleaning under his nails with his knife. The fever stole Ronon's thoughts and he fought to hold on to them. “What about food and water...in the Void?”

“You can find them if you know where to look. If you can find your way through the mountain. If you don't know the right path. Well, let's just say I know where to find plenty of bones for trade.”

“Sounds worth the risk.”

“Not for most. The only people who go there wanna die. But a few...they'll scavenge for rare materials. One of the merchants pays plenty for anything outta of the Void. 

“Like what?”

“Just trinkets. There's no light in the Void. It's colder and darker. What the Bright Side burns, the Void preserves. But things aren't free, you know. Sometimes the price's too steep. That's something you and your friend know all about.”

Ronon trembled with chills now, ignoring the dangerous sign. “You don't know anything about us.”

The stranger leaned closer, sniffing the air around Ronon like an animal. “I know all about you. You're like me. You live to fight. But when you're alive but ain't really livin', there's no reason to keep going. Not for anyone.”

“You're wrong.” But Ronon could hear Kell's voice mocking him. 

The stranger smiled. “That's what interests me. Out there, with the rock. Were you going to lie down for your friend? Or for yourself?”

Ronon lunged and collapsed with a hoarse cry.

The stranger was already up and crouched by the entrance, the sunlight silhouetting his frame. “You gonna tell your friend about it? Or keep it a secret? Better yet, ever wonder if he's keeping anything from you?”

Then the stranger was gone.

Ronon was in the dark again. Alone. Back where he started. There was no telling where Sheppard was, what his friend was sacrificing for him this time. They still didn't have enough food or water. Nothing about their situation had changed.

The stranger was wrong. Ronon had every intention of dying for Sheppard. The rules of the desert were right. Only the strong survived. 

Kell stood over him, waiting.

“I'm not going anywhere. I won't leave him behind.”

And Kell disappeared.

He was still Sheppard's friend, his teammate, and they were strongest together. Ronon never left Sheppard's side under the rubble of Michael's lair and should have known better than to try to leave him now. There was no escaping this planet for a while and with so many enemies, someone had to have Sheppard's back. 

It was odd. He felt so cold. His leg was numb; it didn't scream at him when he shivered. He knew feeling this way was wrong. That the fever was really bad and was tricking his body. As he lay there, trying to fight, Ronon wondered if he had actually talked to the demon of the Void—or if his mind had been playing tricks on him, too.

* * *

John remembered all too well, carrying eighty pounds of gear on his back in the middle of nowhere with only the sun to go by. Training in the Mojave and getting shot down over Bosnia seemed like postcard perfect vacations compared to the grueling trip back to the cave.

“Buck up, John. It’s only a few of gallons,” he berated himself. 

The containers slung over his shoulders were trying to pop his joints out of place, but his hands were occupied with a burlap sack of supplies that he couldn’t let drag on the ground. The bad guys probably had a vague idea where he and Ronon were hiding out but there was no need to draw a map in the sand for them. The necklace around his neck was down to a single stone after his shopping spree, but meager amount left or not, there was probably someone who would figure it was worth killing for. 

The foothills finally grew closer, signaling the end of the day’s journey. Only fifty-one steps left. His new home was a crack in the mountain, a hole created by millions of years of wear and tear. John laughed at the similarities between it and his aching body.

John was barely standing when he reached the opening, but he yanked the supplies through. Tremors wracked his muscles and his legs twitched beneath him. “Ronon?” he called, coughing into the ground. “Buddy?”

No answer.

His heart began pumping so hard his chest hurt. John untangled himself from various straps and crawled over to the lifeless body of his friend. “Ronon!”

Mercifully, he found a weak, rapid pulse and buried his face into his friend’s shoulder. _Not too late. Not too late._

“Hold on,” John whispered.

Sunburned fingers struggled with leather straps and with the cork stopper in the water container. _John, you gotta stop and think first._ Knee jerk reactions were not going to help.

Treat the fever. Then the source of the infection. 

“Get your act together,” John mumbled as he poured water into some of the smaller, more manageable containers. 

Dragging all the things from the market together, he did a quick inventory in his head. The herbs were wrapped in thin layers of cloth and he gathered the dried-up plant material. “How am I going to get you to swallow this crap?”

John looked from Ronon to the shriveled up brown pieces in his hands. His friend needed a massive dose that would hit the fever hard. John grabbed the strip of cloth they’d been using to eat meals off of and crushed the herb into a fine powder with a stone. Using one of the empty dunka pouches, he mixed up the medicine with a small amount of water, doubting Ronon would be able to swallow much. 

Moving Ronon without his help was grueling, but John got his friend up and against the wall so he could give him the herbal drink. It took a lot of time and even more patience to trickle the mixture into Ronon’s mouth. 

“Come on, buddy.”

Ronon smacked his lips without waking, and John dribbled the medicine in one drop at a time. Exhaustion tempted him, but he resisted the urge to curl up and sleep. 

It was his job to look after his people. 

There was enough medicine for two smaller doses, so he saved them for later. John needed to tackle the cause of the problem and treat the skin rash. Even if the Jad denied the need for it…they knew all about the illness John had described. And how to treat it. 

“Since I’m not a hot nurse, I think we’ll both be glad you won’t be awake for this.”

John shifted and wrestled with limbs that were dead, useless weights. It was like undressing a puppet. By the time he finished, John was panting.

The easiest way to lower Ronon’s temperature was to cool him off with water. John didn’t have a ton of that, although he'd picked up the soap flakes from Tobias, the trader Misha had mentioned. 

The merchant had promised the cleaning powder would last for cycles. It seemed people rarely bathed, if ever, but used these flake to keep illness from spreading. John had bartered for a small clay pot that was badly chipped and looked like a third grader had made it. He sprinkled the soap shavings into the pot and poured a tiny amount of water from a dunka pouch like the trader had instructed him. 

“Whoa. You should see this,” he spoke to Ronon. “It’s foaming.”

The flakes reacted to even the smallest amount of water, creating an odd lather. Ronon’s skin was dry and hot, and the suds did an amazing job of washing away the grit and grime, cleansing away the breeding ground for the infection. 

With that completed, John began the task of creating the topical application. He pulled several plant stems from his bag and squeezed out a sticky substance to use over the infected sores. 

It would sting like a bitch, but according to the conversation he’d had with Ziffka at the depository, it’d help.

John spread the paste over the sores, glad that Ronon was unconscious. Then he found the strips of cloth from earlier and used them to cover his friend’s forearms to protect them. 

“Now it’s your turn. I expect you up and awake after I take a quick nap.”

Ronon never stirred but John wouldn’t listen to the inner voice warning him to prepare for the worst. “I’ll settle for you opening your eyes later on, okay?”

John slumped to his side, digging his fingers into his temples. His head was killing him and his body demanded more attention. He wasn’t stupid. Days, maybe even weeks of constant dehydration had accumulated effects. 

And in two cycles he faced the transports again.

He’d been lucky and traded for fruit and the caterpillar things, even grabbing more bland roots since those were filling. But there were hard facts to face. He'd used up almost all the water on the medicine, food, the clay pot and soap flakes and they only had about four to five days worth of food before it was back to square one. John gave Ronon larger portions because he hadn’t been lying about the Satedan being a bigger guy. Ronon had fifty pounds on John and the man needed to eat more. It was biology, pure and simple.

But their rations were small and John couldn’t afford to cut down anymore. He was the only one mobile and thus expended more energy. The only chance they had was Lyle. John had to convince the merchant to hook him up with some of the farmer-gathers to show him how to find their own food. 

John needed to stay strong, maintaining muscle strength to forage and fight when needed. Energy demanded calories. If he got any weaker, then they were both as good as dead. The rations were keeping him going, but couldn’t stop the constant hunger pangs.

Storing away the various herbs, he pulled out the orris, counting out five needles. John had taken some the last few days when things had gotten really bad and still had some left from the first ‘gift’. Rationing Ziffka's donation would have to do until food supplies got streamlined. 

He stored away the various herbs, inventorying them in his head. His eyes fell on the swatch of cloth protecting the orris needles, trying to decide where to hide them. His attention strayed to the food provisions, fighting the urge to snack on a few extra roots and cursing himself for thinking about skimming their supplies. 

Mind over matter was easier said than done when trapped in a hole in the ground. His health wasn’t in immediate danger, but his stomach rumbled and John cursed his inability to stay focused. He simply couldn’t afford the distraction. Five needles should do the trick. 

Chewing them, he swallowed grimly past the bitter taste and kept his eye on Ronon.

He couldn’t let their supplies get so low again; his resourcefulness had to improve. Locating new food sources and bartering tools were top priorities. Life in the days ahead would only get harder; John had to toughen up. Pulling out Ronon’s knife, he stared at the metal but there wasn’t enough light and the steel was too dull to make out his features. Maybe it was a good thing. John didn’t think he’d like the image of the man he needed to become staring back at him. 

He’d seen that reflection once a lifetime ago and prayed he’d never see it again. John closed his eyes and chewed on three more orris needles, knowing he couldn‘t avoid being that man.

* * *

Ronon was cold; his body shivered so hard his bones ached. He was sick of fatigued muscles that didn’t obey or being so low on energy that all he could do was lie on the ground, unable to even open his eyes. 

He’d only been this ill once before when he was six and his mother had stayed by his bedside all day and all night. She’d held his hand, forced him to eat and drink and cradled him when he wanted to die. The Braven Flu had almost won, but his grandfather had ordered him to fight and Ronon had never disobeyed. His mother had cried and he’d never seen her shed tears before. 

And not again until the day he turned down the life she had wanted for him for a life Ronon had desired for himself. The ability to draw the world around him flowed through his veins, but so did the desire to protect it.

Now there was only fire and ice. His body was caught between two extremes, two choices. 

He’d chosen his path despite the pain it had caused his mother. A path riddled with failure.

“It was my fault,” Ronon muttered.

“No, it wasn’t.”

Ronon forced his eyes open when all they wanted was to snap back closed. “Sheppard?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Just go to sleep. I got some medicine and things to make you feel better.”

* * *

_Ronon read a little Wraith, but not the whole language. When you spent most of your life fighting an enemy, you learned some of their written word. The Wraith language was long and complicated; they had symbols for sounds and others for concepts._

_Taking three steps back from the wall, he allowed his eyes to focus on the swirling patterns. No wonder he and Teyla had never noticed it. The Saurin had stripped all the straight lines out of the lettering, merging curves and dots into artwork._

_“What’s it say?” Sheppard asked, watching the halls._

_“Don’t know.”_

_“I’ll get McKay,” Sheppard replied, reaching for his com._

_“Don’t.”_

_Sheppard’s fingers froze inches from his radio. “Why?”_

_“What are you going to say?”_

_“That we found artwork that looks like Wraith.”_

_“Then what?”_

_Sheppard considered things for a moment. “I’ll have to pull Woolsey out of his meeting with the Saurin head honcho. And he’ll wanna know why.”_

_“And the Saurin will get suspicious.”_

_“You want to find proof that the Saurin are hiding something first?”_

_“Yep.”_

_“McKay didn’t find anything unusual in his readings when he scanned the city during the security sweep.”_

_“The Saurin have a cloak like Atlantis.”_

_“They also have a lot of Ancient technology that McKay’s having kittens over,” Sheppard retorted._

_“If we hadn’t seen one of their ships, we wouldn’t have known about them.” That had always bothered Ronon._

_“Yeah, don’t think Lorne expected to find another invisible city when he spotted one of their ships in low orbit over the planet and followed it.”_

_Ronon had never believed in dumb luck. Maybe the Saurin had wanted to be seen. “If the cloak has kept their city a secret and they‘re so smart…”_

_“Then why do they need us?”_

_“Exactly.”_

_Sheppard had that look. The one where he got pissed when people deceived them. “And they just happen to have the Wraith language as decorations. If the Saurin were Wraith worshippers, I doubt they would have been allowed to have this level of technology.”_

_“They’re not worshippers.”_

_“I don’t see them collaborating with each other. The Wraith would’ve culled this place and stolen anything that interested them before leveling the city.”_

_“Yeah,” Ronon replied._

_Sheppard looked around the empty halls. “Teyla’s taking a tour of the southern section and McKay’s with the head science guy. If we radio them, it might tip the Saurin off. I‘m supposed to sit with their head of the military in an hour.”_

_“We have the time.” Ronon checked his blaster and made sure it was set on stun. “They’re hiding something. We should find it.”_

_“Because people with advanced technology are gonna leave all their secrets out for us to uncover,” Sheppard said sarcastically. But he was checking the clip in his gun._

_“It’s a small city; I doubt they have a thousand people living here. They gave us the big tour."_

_Sheppard grinned. “Then we’ll go find the stuff not printed in the guide.”_

* * *

Ronon remembered dreaming of the ocean. Of serving a city and her people and finding his path again. 

A strong breeze floated over the waves and washed over him. The pain had faded and his arms were nice and numb. He was swimming in the sea, nothing between him and the vast depths below. He dove deeper and deeper.

He was free. A fine mist cooled his body and ran down his face. He licked at the droplets of seawater at his lips, wanting more.

“A little at a time,” the voice of Sheppard said.

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Ronon didn’t feel like he was dying of thirst.

* * *

Ronon had wanted to peel the skin off his bones for days. He’d chewed his fingernails down and clawed the ground to keep from gouging at his flesh. Still the rash had spread and itched and boiled over into blisters. And finally he’d drawn blood.

Now he hovered between waking and sleeping, longing to stay there. Because for the first time in days his body felt cooler, like lazy days spent under the Yukka trees near his childhood home. He could almost taste the juice of its plump yellow fruit. His mouth flooded with a tart flavor, like that of the lemons McKay was deathly afraid of. 

“Tastes pretty good, huh?”

Ronon forced eyes stuck together with grit and glue open. “Yeah,” he answered hoarsely.

“You with me this time?”

Sheppard’s worried face swam into focus, his hand poised above Ronon’s mouth. “What’s that?” 

“It’s called _romari_ ,” Sheppard said, holding up a small round thing that looked like an Earth grape with fuzz. “They taste like sour cherries. Grows on this planet’s cactus-things.” 

Ronon pushed up with his hands. Sheppard quickly grabbed his shoulders and helped him sit up against the wall. Being slightly vertical made him want to lie back down, but his brain was starting to clear a little and his stomach growled loudly. 

Sheppard smiled. “I think you might actually want to eat these rather than drink the juice I’ve been pouring down your throat.”

Ronon wasted no time eating the fruit, not caring how the orange-yellow juice stained his fingers. His mind was fragmented, pieces of nightmares and odd visions blending together. There was a pile of romari on a piece of cloth and Sheppard ate quietly next to him. Ronon felt wrung out, his strength drained like the days after his withdrawal from the enzyme. 

There were so many questions, but his body demanded food and that was all it would allow him to think about at the moment. After devouring twelve of the fruit things, Ronon’s fingers froze over the next bunch.

“We’ve got plenty. Didn’t expect you to be awake enough to eat them,” Sheppard said, pulling out a sack filled to the top. 

“Where--”

“I’ll explain everything later. This is fruit. We’ll see about the caterpi--um...we’ll see about stuff that used to be alive tomorrow.”

Ronon gave a token resistance, but Sheppard was eating too, sucking at the drops on his fingertips and digging for more. Hunger won over and Ronon relished the skin, the pulp, every last bite. By the time he was done, his eyes were heavy with sleep even though he’d been up for less than an hour. 

Sheppard busied himself with another sack, this one filled with white powder. In a clay bowl that’d seen better days he began mixing the substance with water.

He looked up at Ronon, his tanned face fatigued and worn. “You’re tired. Go to sleep. It’s actually easier to do this when you’re not awake to notice.”

Ronon’s skin started to itch and the rest of him was warm and sticky. The rash over his chest looked better and even his clothes smelled fresher than before. He was already asleep before contemplating anything else.

* * *

_The Saurin possessed the Ancestor gene, causing McKay to get all worked up where he talked too fast and spoke with his hands more than his mouth. On the third day of talks, it’d been the Saurin who were all excited when they learned that members of the expedition also had the Ancestor gene._

_The arrogance in their superiority was reflected in the security measures of the city. Since they never worried about a breach because of their shield and cloak, the only systems in place to keep people away from high clearance levels was requiring the Ancestor gene to get anywhere._

_Sheppard swiped his hand over sensors or doors opened before he reached them. They started their search in a sector that was off limits during the various tours. It was a long shot that they were near anything of importance until they spotted a security patrol._

_“Think we’re getting warm,” Sheppard whispered._

_They hung back, ghosting the soldiers to determine their route. When they almost ran into a second one, Ronon knew they were near something worth guarding. They were going deeper and deeper, and evading more and more patrols. Neither of them spoke, using hand signals to weave in and out of the halls. The corridors appeared all the same, but Ronon memorized the Wraith designs just in case they had to make a quick escape. Time was ticking down before Sheppard’s meeting and then their impromptu mission would be blown._

_Ronon knew they had found something important before he saw the double doors and the soldiers outside of them. He pointed to the large border of Wraith ‘artwork’ over the entrance._

_'Jackpot,' Sheppard mouthed._

_They needed a plan. Ronon considered his weapon, but Sheppard shook his head. They couldn’t attack without provocation. They couldn’t even blow up anything as a distraction._

_“I’ve got an idea,” Sheppard whispered._

_Ronon followed him several corridors down to one of the doors they had entered. Sheppard pulled open a panel and started manipulating the crystals. “If I do this right, I’ll short the controls and the doors won’t open.”_

_“One of the patrols will see it.”_

_“That’s the plan.”_

_“They’ll radio the problem.”_

_“Yeah, hopefully our pals guarding the door will go investigate it.”_

_“Or they’ll stay at their post and the patrols will call for reinforcements,” Ronon warned._

_Sheppard held up one of the crystals. “That’s another possibility.”_

_“Either way they’re going to know someone sabotaged the doors.”_

_“It’ll burn out the crystal array. That’ll require a tech to investigate it and by that time we would have already gotten our peek. We’ll either have just cause, or I’ll have to come with a really good story and have my ass chewed out by Woolsey for compromising the negotiations.”_

_“You almost done?" Ronon asked impatiently._

_Sheppard rolled his eyes. After a minute sparks flew and metal burned. “That should do it.”_

_They doubled back and waited around the opposite corner from where the guards were stationed. Sheppard glanced at his watch and nodded to Ronon. The patrol should have discovered the doors. If the Saurin military trained their men properly, this would backfire._

_The soldiers’ expressions changed then hands were lifted to earpieces. After a short discussion, both of them cautiously left their post to check things out._

_“If any of our guys ever did that, I’d kick their asses from here 'til Sunday.”_

_Ronon glanced at Sheppard. “Our men wouldn’t. Come on.”_

_They approached the door, each studying their side of the hall for security. Sheppard swiped his hand over the sensor and the door opened. It was dark and Ronon had his blaster out, Sheppard his .45. They kept to the back wall, slowly inching their way inside a room filled with humming machinery._

_There were no signs of people, but it was hard to tell with such little light. Large pieces of equipment reached the ceiling, taking up most of the space. Ronon didn’t know what any of it did; there were dozens of glowing green buttons. They all looked like large generators with glass panels of readouts that he couldn’t decipher._

_The temperature was lower and Ronon could see his breath in clouds of mist. He was tense, the noise of all this stuff able to mask any footsteps. They wandered further and finally the machines thinned out and in the center of the room was a row of pods._

_“Feels like déjà vu,” Sheppard whispered, eying the domed covers. He peered down at one of them and his eyes went wide. “Crap.”_

_Ronon stood next to him, glanced at the insides of the pod, and saw a Wraith sleeping inside it. Sheppard walked briskly around all of them. “There’s got to be about twenty Wraith in here.”_

_Ronon ignored the slumbering Wraith and started toward something very familiar. “John.”_

_Sheppard ran over, his weapon trained in front of him. “What the hell? Is that what I think it is?”_

_Ronon felt his muscles tense and he gripped his gun. “The Saurin have their own Wraith cocoons.”_

* * *

Ronon dreamed of cocoons and stasis pods. Then he imagined people hooked up to tubes and wires. When he tried to set them free they started hissing and screaming, their screeching inhuman.

Waking up from a nightmare wasn’t unusual. Ronon simply reached for the weapon under his pillow. Except there was no pillow. Or bed. It took a few stuttering breaths before he realized he was in a cave… a cave with Sheppard and not one of the hundred he’d slept in during his life as a runner.

Assessing his situation, he noticed the strange faint chemical scent of his skin and clothes. His body still burned with a temperature, but it was lower. He’d been bathed and his throat wasn’t dried out and scratchy. Sheppard sat across from him, lost in his own little world. Seeing his normally alert CO staring vacantly at nothing was unsettling.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Sheppard replied. 

Ronon brushed his fingers over his clothes. “These are clean.”

Sheppard pulled out a small sack. “I used these soap flakes. They suds up real good with a little water. Now we don’t smell so bad.”

“How did you get ‘em?” Ronon asked and watched his friend’s expression. They both knew what Ronon was really driving at. 

Sheppard folded the bag back up. “During one of the times I was robbed at the transports I injured this guy. He died. The Shan‘ka saw it. Deemed it a clean death or whatever.” He pulled out a necklace; a stone dangled from it. “I got all his water.”

Ronon breathed a sigh of relief. “Glad it was him and not you.”

Sheppard looked up sharply. 

Ronon shrugged. “He attacked. You defended yourself. It’s not complicated.”

“I know. Kill or be killed. I did what needed to be done,” Sheppard replied, searching through a new collection of items. “I got this clay pot real cheap. Filled it with some water, stuck these caterpillar things in it and set it outside like a crock pot. I think they slowly roasted enough out there. Should be safe to eat.”

Sheppard wasn’t too torn up by the guy’s death. Ronon thought that was a good thing, but it doubled his earlier uneasiness. Sheppard didn’t kill easily. 

Things were too smooth. Too simple. Ronon had been out of the loop and he didn’t intend for it to stay that way. “Tell me about the Shan’ka,” and listened to the strategic analysis of the Shan’ka’s lair. About their laws. “They control all the water?”

“Seems like it.”

“How do they do it?”

“That’s the mystery. I mean it doesn’t take much imagination to figure out how you could extract water from living things. But the equipment and the storage facilities needed…” 

“Sounds like they have a lot to hide.”

“Makes you wonder how much.” Sheppard poured the water out of the clay pot into another pouch, not wasting the precious liquid. He pulled out pieces of the meaty insect and set them on the same strip of fabric from his shirt. “I think the key to getting off this rock is with the Shan’ka.” Sheppard made a face after biting into dinner. “This is gross.”

Ronon didn’t care how they tasted. “And you used the water from the guy you killed to buy stuff?”

“Yeah. Medicine for your fever. Sap from plants I used on the rash. And I’ve taken care of some sanitary needs.”

The soap baths. Ronon wasn’t embarrassed; he was just sick of being incapacitated. “How did you get the medicine?”

“I traded for it.”

“Why would merchants have things for the sick?” There was no reason to. If you were ill you didn’t contribute. 

“Some people will deal anything for the right price.”

Ronon’s sluggish mind thought about it. The gangs that had jumped Sheppard. Who else would have access to herbs and plants? “You shouldn’t mess with those drug peddlers. People like that can’t be trusted.”

“Who said I trusted them?”

* * *

Ronon sat propped up like a useless lump while Sheppard spread the sticky plant sap over the worst of the lesions; there wasn’t enough of it left to cover the rest of his skin. It stung but he savored that over the lethargic feelings of late. 

Sheppard thought it best to use the last of the sap on Ronon’s arms where he’d scratched open the abscesses. They’d use the soap suds to treat the rest of the rash over his body. That was good. The sooner he got over this illness, the sooner he could work on his leg. Sheppard didn’t comment on his broken bones. There was no need to. It hurt like hell, but it was a muted roar since he hadn’t moved the limb in days. If he could only find a way to splint it. 

Sheppard still had the rash; blotches of pink irritated skin covered his arms, neck and chest. “Don’t forget to treat yourself,” Ronon reminded him. 

“I’m using the soap flakes. You’re just never awake to see.”

Sheppard made a show of spreading the suds over his most affected areas before sitting in silence for a while. 

“You have to go out to the transports.” It wasn’t a question. Sheppard got quieter the day he went for water.

“I’m going out earlier this time.”

“Why?” 

“Old strategy’s not working.”

“You’ve brought back some each time.”

“That’s not enough. I plan on getting both containers filled.”

“How are you going to fill both by yourself?”

Sheppard didn’t say anything. 

It only pissed Ronon off. “Do you think I don’t know what it’s like? I’ve been where you are, John. There’s the battlefield and there’s what’s out there. You have to treat it like any other war or it’ll eat you up inside.”

“I’m fine, no need to go Freudian on me.”

Ronon didn’t know what that meant but he knew when someone was hiding something. Then again, so was he. “I saw someone. While you were gone.”

“Who?”

“The guy people are afraid of. The demon from the Void.”

“Malvick? Why? And when were you going to tell me?” 

Malvick. That was his name. “Didn’t know if he was a dream.” Sheppard was still mad; Ronon could feel the anger coming off him in waves, but it wasn’t all directed outward. “You can’t be here all the time.”

“What did he want?”

“I don’t know. He’s been watching both of us. He’s after something. Haven’t figured out his game. But if he wanted to kill us, we’d be dead already.”

“You learn anything about this Void?”

“To stay away from it.” Ronon didn’t mention anything else, not wanting Sheppard to investigate the place by himself. Not that it sounded like he could without guidance. If anyone was going into the Void it was him. He was going to pull his own weight.

“I bet you there’s something there. It’s on my list of things to check out after we have a constant source of supplies. There are too many questions about this planet and not enough answers.” Sheppard pulled out more of the romari and handed Ronon the first half of the day’s food rations. “You should’ve told me earlier.”

“You should have told me what you did for water before.”

“Before what?”

“Before you killed that guy.”

“I don‘t know what you‘re talking about.”

Ronon grabbed Sheppard’s arm and pulled up the sleeve. “Where did you get those burns?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“You gave up blood.”

Sheppard jerked his arm away, his harsh breathing giving away his anger. “How did you--”

“He told me. Like I said, Malvick’s been watchin’ us.” Nothing shocked Ronon these days. Except maybe the image of his friend trading his life’s blood for water. 

“You would’ve done the same for me,” Sheppard said.

Ronon would. No doubt about it. “Don’t do it again.” 

“Don’t plan on failing again.”

“This wasn’t your failure.”

Sheppard didn’t argue, but his silence spoke volumes.

* * *

Joining the Air Force had been John’s ticket away from his father’s visions of a family empire with him at the helm. He’d passed on taking the penthouse office and the boardroom battles. All John wanted to do was fly. To experience the only sense of freedom he’d ever known.

In the sky.

John excelled at being a pilot. What started off as thrill-seeking escapism became an invaluable skill for his country. It stopped being about the fast, super cool aircraft and more about the missions. 

He went wherever they asked. Took pictures above places it was illegal to be over and even destroyed things that didn’t exist on any maps. When he started his tour in Afghanistan, John thought he’d seen and done it all.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Air support. The occasional search and rescue. More 'special' assignments. He volunteered for it all and saw more action on the ground than the average pilot, learning one of the hardest taught lessons of any soldier--how to dehumanize the enemy. 

In the air it’d been easier. Flashing dots or specks on radar had been the targets. Air combat was a test of ability, the other pilots the ultimate opponents, but taking out a person face to face was another matter. 

“It’s kill or be killed, Sheppard. You can‘t put a face to the enemy,” Colonel Lebronski had told him.

There was no applying personalities to those you fought. No thinking in human terms. You wore the uniform and dismissed all civilian rules. The people you killed didn’t have a family or normal lives during the few seconds of combat. Humanity didn’t exist in war.

This fight for water was just another battle to win.

John sought only the best position, ignoring those around him, never seeking to see behind the fabric and goggles. It helped that everyone was hidden by false layers. It made it easier to dismiss them as obstacles. 

Hanging back from the fight had cost him too much before. This time, he needed to be in the fray. Blood, piss, and filth stewing in the sun overwhelmed the air and he swallowed past the gagging it triggered. The god-awful noise of too many voices followed; nearly the whole wretched population of this hellhole waited for water. 

The tanker arrived and the masses gathered around the landing zone. John surveyed the crowd. The Spraza were easy to spot, their faces covered in heavy streaks of red paint; several held pieces of bones as clubs. Ten men carried huge containers with a couple dozen surrounding them like destroyers protecting the convoy. 

There was no need to take them on. 

The others, however, were fair game. He inched closer to the front of the circle, searching for the smallest and weakest of the bunch. Others used his strategy, healthier people pushing their way through. John took a mental note to avoid the guys with the large rocks in their hands. 

The transport landed and the crowd surged, and John raced to keep ahead of it. He wasn’t the first one to reach the taps and it was like a twenty car pile-up. He was smashed on all sides and for a few seconds it was impossible to breathe. Then people sought thinner areas and shorter lines and there was an inch here and there to jockey for a better place.

As soon as there was a slight opening John pulled out the knife and the world went in slow motion. This had to be done. Don’t think. Don’t hesitate. 

Complete the mission.

John drove the handle into the base of people's skulls and worked a path towards a faucet. Some fell unconscious immediately, others staggered and he muscled past them. 

Some prisoners scrambled away in fear; others fought back, striking back at John in any way they could. But he just reacted more brutally.

He smashed jaws and caught people on the side of the head with the knife handle. It was impossible avoiding the shots to his ribs and back, but they bounced off him. All that mattered was the faucet and the flowing water.

John reached the tap and drained the liquid into his container, holding on with one hand and defending his spot with the threat of the blade. He finished with the first container and switched to the second.

“You got your fill!” 

“Move outta the way!”

Fingers tried displacing his own but John held on like a wild animal with one hand and sliced the knife with the other. His blade met flesh over and over again while he blocked out all the screaming. 

Finally, multiple hands dug into his shoulders, yanking him away. John wasn’t moving of his own accord, but both containers were full and heavy across his back, the tide sending him to the outskirts of all the fighting bodies.

Masses continued to beat one another over at the transport, but he was done. Time to leave.

This was the final leg of his mission, the noise of the melee roaring behind him. It was the first time he’d noticed the sounds since he‘d arrived. A glint in the corner of his eye had him turning to see blue robes in the distance. The Shan’ka overseeing the rule of their law.

John marched on, aware of those staging an ambush meters across from him, waiting to strike. Their target was behind John but he didn’t warn the poor soul. Just one less thief for him to deal with later.

Rolling sore shoulders, he adjusted the water packs pulling on his back. When the gang jumped the other guy, he forced the sounds out of his head. 

Arriving and leaving early had cut down on the amount of thugs and scavengers, many waiting to prey on the weakest, especially those who left the tanker last. 

“Six hundred and thirty-two more steps,” John mumbled.

Then it became six hundred and thirty-one.

The tanker took off when he reached two hundred and seventy.

John allowed his body to experience the pain from the punches and the elbows at ninety-four steps.

His breathing was ragged when he reached outside the cave. Pushing his goggles down, he blinked away the brightness, easing the heavy containers to the ground. He studied the newest blood staining his shirt; at least this time there were fewer smudges. Wiping his sticky fingers over them, he did his best to clean the reminders away. 

Hands cupped over his face, John released a shuddering breath.

Mission complete.

Then he fell to his knees and heaved into the dirt.

* * *

Ronon contemplated the squares, picking a box. Then changing his mind. He did this three or four times, going over all the options before growling in frustration. His finger finally drew a quick X in the center and he sat back. “This is stupid.”

Sheppard put a circle in the far right box. “We could play hangman.”

“In Satedan?”

“We only have twenty-six letters in our alphabet.”

Ronon marked the bottom right corner of the grid. “You use the same letters for different sounds. Having thirty-nine makes more sense.”

Sheppard countered with the opposite square without thinking about it. “Simpler can be better.”

This was the sixth round and it was bound to end in a tie again. They all did. “Like this game?” Ronon huffed.

Sheppard missed an obvious spot to block Ronon’s line of Xs, sticking his circle in the wrong square. Ronon countered with another X then drew a line connecting them across the grid. “You gave up.”

“No, I didn’t.”

It was a half-hearted denial but neither was inclined to offer more. Hours-long silences had often fallen between them. Ronon never had the energy to do more than lie around despite fierce instincts not to. Sheppard had slept a lot the last couple of days as well and had been restless when he was awake, moving about the cave like a caged animal. 

Sheppard wiped away the tic-tac-toe game and started rearranging their supplies for the fourth time in a few hours.

“You should work out again,” Ronon encouraged.

Sheppard had been exercising in the back when he woke up since that’s when he had the most energy. His friend considered the idea, running his hand through his longer hair and grooming it the best he could with his fingers. “Nah. Gonna run out today. See if I can find Lyle, ask about letting me in on harvesting for food.”

“What makes you think he’ll help?” 

“Because we still owe him. He’ll help if it means getting paid back.”

Ronon wasn’t sure about that. He didn’t trust the merchant; there was no such thing as a free handout. “What are you going to offer him?”

“See if he bites at a thirty-seventy split of what I can gather.”

“Why does he need you? He’s a trader. Probably has a better deal with the people who work for him.”

“I’ll match whatever arrangement he has with his own people.”

“Don’t expect much. Telling you his source of food gives away his power.”

“You got a better idea?” Sheppard snapped.

“Follow him and do it yourself.” It’s what Ronon would do.

“I don’t think double crossing the only guy who’s helped out is a good idea.”

“Double cross him before he does you.”

“We’ve got this…” Sheppard bobbed his head back and forth in search of his words. “This _understanding._ I don‘t think you need to worry.”

“I’m just--”

“I said, I’ve got it covered.”

“John.”

“Don’t!” Sheppard growled. His jaw was clenched, both hands balled into fists. He took two short rapid breaths and clawed at his beard before visibly reining his anger in. “Think I’ll do a few push-ups.” 

Ronon watched him crawl away, his own jaw equally clenched. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, if it was more than frayed nerves and tight spaces. Part of him knew what it was about. He was the tracker. Animal or plant, it didn’t matter. And he wanted to be the one out there, in the thick of things.

Sweat beaded at his forehead, the droplets a symbol of conflict. Perspiration was a sign of hydration and of the low-grade fever that he couldn’t kick. 

He pounded his hand into the ground. When that didn’t alleviate his frustration, he took a whack at a stone protruding from the ceiling. Part of the rock broke away in his fingers and he crushed it against the ground, pulverizing it. The mineral left a reddish smear behind.

The smudge was streaked with tiny crystal flakes. He took the nub of rock and drew a small red circle that sparkled softly in the dark. Were there more? The roof of the cave was composed of a substance analogous to coarse sandstone with a few odd discolorations. He wasn’t a scientist, but he knew that caves were created by fire or water. Elements got mixed up and maybe there were other pieces of this rock. It’d been a long time since he had something to do and Ronon looked forward to the search. 

He heard Sheppard clamber back, his demeanor appearing less agitated. “Hey.”

Ronon readjusted himself against the wall, unable to hide the grimace of pain. “Hey.”

Sheppard rubbed anxiously at the back of his neck. “Look about--”

“Don’t worry about it.” But Ronon did worry, for other reasons. Ones he couldn’t place.

“Yeah. Okay. Well…I’ve gotta…ya know.”

Ronon forgot about the rocks. “Be careful out there.”

Sheppard didn’t look right and it was more than worry and stress. There was something beneath the growing beard and healing rash. His eyes, even in this light, lacked their usual glint. 

“I’ll see what it’ll take to get more stuff for your fever.”

“It’s a lot better.”

“We’ve got to break it, or it could gain ground and get worse.” Sheppard put on his boots. “Besides, once you kick this thing you can get off your lazy ass and hunt down some real food.”

“Count on it,” Ronon replied.

“Good. Cuz I’m tired of eating bugs.”

The cave grew silent in Sheppard’s absence and Ronon was determined not to dawdle. A pair of BDUs was the only thing keeping his leg stable, so he scooted across the ground, careful not to jostle it. There was a small boulder Sheppard used to grind up the medicine and he wrapped his hands around it and set it on his lap.

Strengthening his leg was out of the question, but that didn’t mean the rest of him should get out of shape. He began curling the stone to work on his biceps and forearms. A hundred would be a good start. After those reps, he’d lift the weight above his head to build up his shoulders.

He’d heard the Earthers say ‘no pain, no gain’. It was a motto he lived by every day. 

Keeping an ear out for outside noise, he concentrated on muscles weakened by disuse. Working out got his blood pumping and put his brain on alert. By the time that was done, his body was down for the count, but the exercise left him invigorated. More rehab was out of the question since the annoying fever clung to him.

That left him with more time on his hands. Like hell would he go back to sleep. He glanced down at the disregarded rock he’d discovered earlier. Grabbing the mineral, he scratched it against the wall.

Maybe he’d found something to do with his time after all.

* * *

Ronon sketched out the design of a new tattoo, starting with the Satedan symbol for loyalty, a symbol he’d drawn for the first time when he was five years old. The _quilo_ , Kosk's symbol. His grandfather used to recite all of Kosk’s greatest battles before Ronon had learned to read. Ronon still kept the book on his hero at his bedside, absorbed in the artistic renditions of glory on the battlefield. 

His favorite picture in the entire book was of Kosk sharpening his knife after tattooing the quilo onto his arm. Kosk had created the design after one of the bloodiest battles for the union of Sateda and he’d carved it into his own bicep as a permanent symbol of inspiration for his army. Kosk’s men soon took their own blades, carving the quilo into their own arms in a sign of solidarity.

The symbol was the centerpiece of Ronon’s design, standing out in a shimmering red. He planned to overlap each side of the quilo with the symbols for friendship and service. They were the three pillars of his personal code and he wanted them to be a permanent part of him.

Originally he’d wanted them tattooed between his shoulder blades, despite the fact his scars were no longer there after McKay had healed them. He didn’t want to cover up the area where they’d once been. Maybe his chest. 

He’d found, by pure luck, another piece of rock that left behind orange-brown streaks. It had hardly stood out; the tiny glints of mineral were nearly impossible to see in the dark. It wasn’t until they were crushed against something that they softly reflected their color.

Ronon stared at the quilo, imagining how to intertwine the other two symbols with it. As his thoughts focused on the significance of such a piece he dropped the shard of rock. 

Would he ever be worthy of wearing symbols of such importance? Should a warrior have allowed himself to be captured? Should he have allowed one of his most trusted friends to be taken as well? 

Ronon’s blood burned with a warrior’s fire, but the flames raged out of control sometimes. Shoot first, ask questions later worked most of the time. But great warriors didn’t allow emotion to overwhelm strategy. He’d used to have a cool head in battle, but years of being reduced to an animal had almost destroyed such training. 

Going to Atlantis-- fighting for her, fighting alongside his team had gone a long ways to restoring who he used to be. But the Wraith had transformed him and Ronon was still reinventing himself.

He stared at the quilo and vowed that he would earn the right to wear it. To right what had gone so wrong.

* * *

_Ronon stared at the Wraith cocoon, wanting nothing more than to destroy it. He raised his blaster but Sheppard grabbed his wrist._

_“Stand down!”_

_“Why?” Ronon growled._

_“We don’t need the whole Saurin security force on top of us.”_

_“Then what? Don’t think they’ll be our allies now.”_

_“We regroup. Our people are scattered across this city.”_

_Ronon backed down, knowing his CO was right. They needed to ensure their people’s safety first._

_Sheppard glanced at his watch. “Crap. The meeting I had has started. I‘m going to be missed.”_

_“We’ve already missed you, Colonel.”_

_Ronon and Sheppard spun around at once, but they were surrounded by six armed Saurin. How had they snuck up on them like that?_

_The head of security stepped forward; Ronon had forgotten his name. “Please lower your weapons. You’re outnumbered and it would be foolish to resist.”_

_Sheppard was armed with a handgun. Ronon had his blaster. It wouldn’t be much of a stand, not with the Saurin’ firepower. Sheppard nodded at him to do what the guy said. It was a lose-lose situation._

_“Good, now if you would follow me,” the security guy said._

_They were escorted a different way and went deeper into the lab and toward another room. The doors opened for Sheppard and they were greeted by the head guy. Ronon waited to be restrained or patted down and was confused that the Saurin hadn’t disarmed them yet._

_“Colonel Sheppard. Mr. Dex. It seems you discovered our research facility before we’d planned.”_

_“It was conveniently left off the tour,” Sheppard replied._

_“Yes, a highly debated decision. It makes no difference now. You saw our work. Now we’ll show you everything.”_

_“Since you’re gonna give us the five star treatment, Mr. Dumma, you mind if I contact the rest of our team? Save you from giving the tour twice,” Sheppard inquired in that deadpan tone of his._

_Dumma was a politician. A blaster hung in a holster on his hip, but Ronon doubted he had ever fired the thing. He was short with a perfectly trimmed dark beard that matched his perfectly trimmed hair. Everything about him was immaculate. A spotless long flowing blue jacket and shirt topped ironed and starched gray pants. He had smiled the most during the negotiations which wasn’t saying much. “No. I’d rather have your opinion. You are the head of your military. I have no doubt that your doctor of science would approve, but it is you we need to win over.”_

_“Win over?” Sheppard questioned._

_“So we may join forces and combine our knowledge, of course,” Dumma replied with a smile. “I think you’ll realize that our work here will benefit us all.”_

_The Saurin leader waved his hand over a sensor, and a panel opened and revealed a large window overlooking a basement to the lab. Sheppard and Ronon stepped closer and peered down at the massive facility below. It was filled with enough consoles and computer equipment to make McKay drool over himself. Scientists with masks and goggles worked diligently over their machines, some bustling about even more stasis pods. The entire eastern side of the room was made up of a wall of Wraith cocoons._

_“What did you do? Create your own mini Hive?” Sheppard growled._

_“In a way.” Dumma beamed. “We discovered a decayed Hive ship very long ago and were able to bring part of it back. Our scientists have been able to keep and grow the genetic material with the right balance of chemicals and nourishment.”_

_It took everything in Ronon’s power to keep from breaking the Saurin’s neck. But he waited, knowing that the rest of their people would be put in danger. They were probably in a holding cell right now._

_No, he’d wait for Sheppard’s signal. The colonel always had a plan._

_“You’re growing cocoons.” Sheppard glared at Dumma. “Why?”_

_“Why? To keep the Wraith we have alive,” Dumma responded._

_Ronon fumed. Sheppard’s whole body tensed. “You’re experimenting on the Wraith?”_

_“Don’t sound so surprised. Do you think you are the only people to conduct this type of research?” Dumma questioned._

_“And what kind of research is that?” Sheppard demanded._

_“On their superior genetic makeup.”_

_Ronon’s chest heaved with his cracking restraint. “Superior?”_

_“Why, yes. They have the ability to regenerate their bodies. To covert energy in ways that allows them to live for tens of thousands of years. Look at the bio-chemical structure of their Hive ships. Their telepathic abilities. There is so much to study.”_

_“You admire them,” Sheppard said, disgusted by Dumma’s glee._

_“Of course we do. We admire their advancements. Like we admire the Ancients or anyone else who possesses technology and research to better Saurin society. But the Wraith....they are special. So special that we surround ourselves with their symbols throughout our city. ”_

_Sheppard looked at Ronon and back through the window. “You want to be allies to get your hands on our research.”_

_“We are aware of your collaborations with the Wraith and your own experiments.” Dumma’s face broke out in a rare display of excitement. “Between our two peoples, we might be able to harness the power of the Wraith.”_

_Sheppard stepped away, his eyes darting about, verifying the positions of the guards and all possible exits. “The power of the Wraith,” he repeated. “Forgive me if that sounds a little insane.”_

_The Saurin security forces slowly closed in and Dumma waved a hand over another sensor, his face hard. “We’re not insane, Colonel Sheppard. Once you see how close we are, you’ll change your mind.”_

* * *

John had been a ball of raw nerves earlier. Too many hours inside a cramped, dark space with nothing to do. His thoughts either drifted randomly or they overanalyzed the most current crisis to the point of invading his dreams, making sleep as stressful as being awake. Playing games barely kept his focus and Ronon’s questions had been like thousands of jabbing sticks.

“Get your shit together,” he muttered. This wasn’t the time to come undone. 

He walked against a strong breeze, the empty space between the caves and the settlement a giant wind tunnel. He kept his head down while grains of sand scraped at the nape of his neck and snuck in where his sleeves billowed open. What he’d give for a couple of rubber bands around his wrists to protect his arms. 

Visibility was only a few inches as he hiked over the hard bedrock, his hands tucked under his armpits for protection. The sudden sandstorm had corralled others inside the shelter of the subterranean market, cramming the area with people and their sweltering body heat. John removed both handkerchiefs and goggles before taking a long swig from his dunka pouch. 

The market bustled with wandering people trying to take refuge from outside and barterers competing over the noise of the crowd. Loud shouting caught John’s attention; the sharp, angry voices attracted people in a large growing circle. Heat, tension, the threat of violence. It was like honey to those with nothing to do. John brushed a hand over his knife, his eyes following the source of the disturbance. He remained vigilant and walked around the outside of the crowd before finding an open spot to observe.

It wasn’t a surprise to see six Spraza at the source of the problem. The gang surrounded a man who clung to a pole tacked with fernandi. John recognized the seller from the first day he’d explored the market. The guy’s eyes darted between his ‘protectors’ and the men encroaching on his space, three members of the Jad who made up the other side of the battle line, each gripping bone-carved knives. 

“Great,” John muttered. 

He identified Pullo as the loudmouth he’d tangled with in the Jad’s lair. A shabby robe covered him like a giant Jawa costume; his rolled-back hood revealed a head completely bald save for little spikes of green dyed hair. Pullo wasn’t much for artwork; his gang colors looked like they’d been applied by dipping his fingers in paint and smearing them messily over his face without a mirror.

Pullo huffed like a bull. “Chargin’ a dunka for a fernandi is brocha!” 

One of the Spraza stepped forward; two streaks of red paint framed his crooked nose. It was Rull, the guy whose face John had smashed when they first arrived. This was going to be an exceptionally crappy day. That’s all he needed: a couple of hot-headed guys both wanting to be the big kahuna. 

“Price’s gone up.” Rull shrugged.

“We won’t stand for this!” Pullo hissed.

“And we won’t stand for higher orris prices,” Rull growled, stepping closer to his rival. 

Ouch. This was a trade war. Drugs vs a major food source. John’s sampling of the planet’s provisions was limited, but he knew the fernandi lizard things were a source of real meat and tasted good as well. On the other hand, jacking up the price of orris was bound to piss people off.

Never screw with people’s vices. 

Pullo scanned the rapt crowd, using his two inch height advantage to stare Rull down. “The Spraza do not own the Tharsqin Sands. You can’t control all the fernandi! It’s a neutral territory.”

Rull smirked, sharing a smile with his buddies. “Not for long.”

The Spraza pulled sharpened shards of rock out of their pockets and John started inching backwards, not wanting to get caught in a brawl. 

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” Pullo taunted unoriginally.

The other five Spraza fanned out around their second in command. They outnumbered the drug gang, but the Jad were bigger and had larger weapons. “Really?” Rull mocked. “I thought you needed permission just to take a piss. Breaking our truce seems too big for you.”

Pullo’s entire body shook in untapped rage. “Ziffka's great plan is snash. Besides, he ain‘t here.”

John saw it– the moment when both men lost control. 

But suddenly people scrambled in all directions and three blue-robed Shan’ka forged a path through those fleeing away. Silence descended over the market, and people huddled in dozens of groups, all nervously eying the conflict. The rival Spraza and Jad backed down and let their hands drop to their sides.

John maneuvered around, gathering intel. The Shan’ka surveyed the crowds, ensuring they had everyone’s attention. The middle one stepped forward, his entourage flanking him. It was Misha and he looked to his masters before addressing the crowd. “The waste of life fluids will not be tolerated. Those who kill people of able body will be punished. The Shan’ka will not issue any more warnings.”

Declaration made, the Shan’ka didn’t waste time leaving, turning their backs on those they controlled and returning to their lair. Misha paused, gazing at the sights and sounds of the outside world before one of the Shan’ka turned his head in scrutiny and Misha hurried to take his place with them. 

The gangs remained, sneering at each other to save face before backing away. Once the Shan’ka were gone, commerce continued as people returned to bargaining. John kept his eye on Rull and his cohorts, moving in the opposite direction. Running into a bunch of humiliated Spraza wouldn’t end well for him. 

Lyle was nowhere in the sea of faces so John shouldered his way past others, searching for him in the next trading area.

A random merchant grabbed John’s elbow, almost earning him a sharp jab in return. “I have something special for you,” the man said, tugging him toward the end of the market in a corner away from everyone. 

John jerked his arm away, scanning the area. “Maybe another time.”

“Don’t you want fresh fruit?”

John’s blood pounded in his ears, his paranoia running rampant. “Sorry, no money.”

“I was thinking of something else.”

John noticed two people coming at him from each side and he didn’t wait for the first blow. He slammed his elbow into the right guy’s sternum and punched the guy on his left in the face hard enough to pop his knuckles. John swung back for another jab, but the merchant jumped in front of his cronies.

“Stop!”

John only saw a target and clocked the merchant in the jaw. 

“Enough!” the merchant growled, holding his mouth. “I’m offering you a deal! This isn’t an ambush.”

Right Guy recovered from the blow to the chest, but didn’t make a move. Left Guy’s mouth was bleeding and he looked at his boss for orders. John’s heart pumped wildly; adrenaline poured through him, making it hard to catch his breath.

“I need someone like you. We can help one another out,” the merchant implored, holding his hands out in placation.

It took a moment for John’s brain to catch up to the fact that no one was attacking him. “Help one another?” he repeated, wrapping his mind around the sentence. 

“Yes.” The merchant put his hands down. “I require your service.”

The merchant looked like all the others save for what seemed better stitched clothes that actually seemed the proper size. His frame was bigger than John’s, his head scarf was a faded blue and he had dark, bushy eyebrows and a well-trimmed beard. 

“Didn‘t know I had a service to offer,” John said in genuine doubt. 

The merchant laughed. “You have skills I need.”

John nodded at the other two men. “Really? What about them?” 

The merchant snorted. “They‘re a pair of broken backs and feeble minds.”

Both men bowed their heads and John noticed how little of a threat they were. Left Guy was older looking, the oldest person he’d seen on this planet. He could have been in his sixties, deep wrinkles and hours in the sun aging him more. His left eye was black and blue, his bottom lip swelling up from John‘s punch.

Right Guy stared at John with a burning intensity, a slow boil of anger that the rest of him was incapable of acting upon. He was a small thing, with thinning wisps of hair and a scraggly beard that barely covered signs of prickly heat. He held his arm close to his chest and winced when he moved.

The merchant scowled at them. “They’ve been unproductive of late and couldn’t even hold their own at the transports. When they returned with empty pouches, they told me all about _you._ ”

John’s stomach coiled. He studied the two laborers, but he didn’t recognize them. He never looked at anyone’s faces on the transport missions, couldn’t afford the weight of empathy on his shoulders. 

It was hard not to look at them now. Humanizing them. Seeing the results of his fists and elbows. John turned away quickly and focused on the merchant. “What do you want?” he asked tersely. 

“You to go out with them and find romari.”

This was the exact opportunity he’d been seeking, but there was always a caveat. “I prefer working solo.”

The merchant shook his head and gestured at his men. “Hemma and Juka will go with you. Show you where and how to harvest. Then we’ll see about going on your own.”

“What else?”

“What do you mean?”

John smiled. “You can get anyone to pick berries. You said you needed someone like me. Who is that exactly?”

The merchant appraised John‘s clothes and gruff appearance with a crooked grin. “I need someone who can take care of problems and not worry about how bloody their hands get.”

John kept his expression neutral. “Describes a lot of people around here.”

“I don’t care about alliances. I only care about me. You’re loyal to no one.”

John had become a thug for hire. “What’s the split?”

“Fifty-fifty.”

“Don’t think so. Not unless you plan on helping.”

“Sixty-forty.”

“Seventy-thirty,” John countered, ignoring the fact that he was negotiating a payment on his ability to kill. 

The merchant waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t need you that badly.”

John called the bluff. “You sure about that? Sixty-five. Thirty-five. Final offer.”

“Deal.” The merchant beamed. “The Spraza and Jad will be too busy planning on how to stab each other in the back. And with the price of fernandi, people will need more romari.” He jerked his head at his two men who had stood by during the deal making. “What are you waiting for?”

The merchant’s men hopped to and suddenly the three of them were going. 

John wrapped both handkerchiefs around his face and head and pulled on his goggles. The merchant’s men did the same, covering up any distinguishable features that made them stand out against the rest. 

They set out in silence, three people without faces, on a mission for someone whose name John hadn’t asked.

* * *

John followed the other two through the community section of caves, noting the various identification marks on the alcoves. He wondered if they all varied in size, if the more water you owned, the more spacious the living arrangements. Perhaps the deeper caves had slits carved out for light, allowing better use of space. The planet demanded survival of the fittest; the select few controlled all the resources and ruled through brute strength.

“Go in; I’ll wait,” the older guy instructed his pal.

John stood outside a shaft while the younger guy gave his friend a look before disappearing within the shelter. 

“Got to stop for supplies,” the older man explained.

“This your place?” John asked before realizing he’d opened his mouth. _Keep your distance_ , an internal voice told him.

The man chuckled. “Juka and I live in the back of Ketra’s shelter in exchange for work.”

That made this guy Hemma. John scolded himself for learning who was who. “Sounds like a good trade.”

“It works,” Hemma said. John avoided looking at the man’s battered face and instead stared at the old guy’s sandals. The shoes were little more than flat pieces of leather with twine over his toes. 

Juka returned with an armful of stuff and dropped a knapsack at John’s boots and started to walk away. Hemma snagged his shoulder. “Give him a sun cover.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

The young hothead shoved a bundle of fabric and plastic-like rods into John’s hands. “I’m not putting it together for you.”

It was difficult to see items through tinted goggles, but John watched Hemma assemble his gear into a type of umbrella. Ah. Sun cover. Got it. John did the same and opened up the primitive umbrella.

“Where’d you get these handles?” 

“Ketra provided it so we don‘t keel over in the heat. I don’t like touchin’ them. They were scavenged from The Void.” Hemma waved a leathery hand toward the sliver of gray sky near where John and Ronon lived. 

So there were resources to be found in the Void. 

It was the first time John actually studied it from here, noticing the faint outline of something in the sky above the Void. Whatever it was eclipsed by the sun. Normally he'd try to figure out angles and locations. The why and where. But he didn't really care. 

“Let’s go,” Juka snapped.

The tension between the laborers was thick. John tried not to let it bother him and just kept his eyes and ears attuned to any threat. The umbrella shielded him from the never-ending sun, extending the stamina needed to cross the cracked brittle ground. They’d walked two klicks or more in temperatures hotter than the worst days in Afghanistan. 

His mind was at an impasse. Instinctually, John kept protectively ahead of the other two, until he realized he wasn’t leading, that he didn’t have a clue where to go. It was surprising how well Hemma kept the strenuous pace, never voicing a complaint. Juka grunted from time to time, walking slightly hunched over as if protecting his ribcage. 

John clenched his jaw, pushing back emotions and recently buried memories.

This could all be a trap. It’d be easy to walk out here and never return. The desert wasn’t always sand; it could be endless dry terrain like an over-baked moon, filled with odd rock formations, the last remnants of an eroded mountain. 

“Over here.” Hemma pointed.

John squinted at a row of rocks large enough for two or three people to take cover behind or stage an ambush. Hemma and Juka hurried over to the orange colored boulders. John was vigilant, searching for movement behind the dozens of boulders in the rough landscape.

It was Kabul all over again. Waiting for the Taliban to appear out of nowhere.

“You just gonna stand there?” Juka growled.

Juka was young. Twenty-two. Twenty three? His life sucked and he’d probably eat John’s boots if they were edible. Not to mention the fact that John had probably beat on the kid recently. A bad attitude was to be expected.

“Show me what to do,” he replied, kneeling down.

“Got that knife handy?” Hemma asked.

“Yeah,” John said, peering over the old guy’s shoulder.

Cacti grew under the shade of rocks. Tiny yellow flowers bloomed on the outside of hardened shells lined with hundreds of thorns. Hemma held onto the bottom of the plant, careful of the sharp spines. “How about slicin’ this open?”

There were scars all over Hemma’s fingers from the cacti and John carefully dug his blade into the outer layer that was tough as old shoe leather. He had to stab the damn thing, the spines giving him tiny razor cuts as he sliced. The plant split open, revealing tiny pieces of fruit on the inside.

“Cool,” John said.

“Yeah. We’ll see how great they are after you do this forever,” Hemma snorted, plucking the romari and filling his knapsack. 

Juka wasn’t having much luck with his homemade knife, a piece of sharpened stone with a fairly dull edge. “I’ll get that,” John offered.

Juka smacked John’s knuckles with his tool. “I don’t want your help.”

Hemma hit the kid in the back of the head. “Enough! You have one job. Harvest romari.”

Juka simmered, slicing open the cactus by sheer will. He looked up at John, his voice brimming with hatred. “Cut your own and keep an eye out for thieves.”

John preferred it that way. He stuck the umbrella in the ground to give him shade and worked his way through the patch of cacti. He cut and mangled eighteen plants; little rivulets of blood coated his fingers. Hemma and Juka sucked at their cuts and John did the same.

They’d barely put a dent in their knapsacks and John wondered how many it took to fill them. “How do you know where they grow?” he asked casually, hoping to pick up a few tips for spotting the cacti in the future.

“We planted these,” Hemma replied, wiping at his brow. 

“And you hope that no one finds them?”

The older man shrugged. “Yeah.”

Talk about gambling. 

They walked to the next hidden cache of plants. There were only six cacti; the rest were dried and shriveled from growing outside the protection of shade. It didn’t take long to harvest those and then it was on to the next set. And the next. And the next after that.

It was hit and miss. Like fishing. They wandered from rock formation to rock formation, going deeper and deeper into the desert, sipping water from time to time. John’s hands were sliced and diced, but if the odd couple didn’t complain, neither would he. If it wasn’t for the sun covers they would have roasted alive. In Kabul they had worked under tarps since rock and sand stored conductive heat from direct sunlight; the ground was thirty to forty degrees hotter than the air. Even working under the umbrella, his clothes were hot to the touch.

They headed to their final location when John saw movement about half a klick away and raised his fist, the other two halting at the universal signal. 

“What is it?” Hemma asked.

“People. A lot,” John replied, pointing at a large cropping of rocks twenty to thirty meters away and dozens of sun covers sticking out of the ground. “Over there.” 

The three of them ducked behind a nearby boulder. John peered above the rock, trying to distinguish the rising glare from the number of bodies. “I count ten, maybe fourteen people.”

“It’s a Spraza farming party,” Juka said. 

“Farming party?” 

Juka pulled off his goggles, wiping his eye gear clean. “Yeah. We’re close to their territory. They stack rows of rock and plant whole areas under the shade. When the romari flowers bloom, they know it’s time to harvest.”

“Why not do it closer to the settlement? Easier to guard.”

“And easier for mobs to take over when too many are hungry. The Shan’ka don’t want a slaughter.” Hemma rolled onto his back to rest. “The Spraza claim most of the land out here, but they don’t have the numbers to guard it all. Plus, wars can‘t be fought under the watchful eyes of the Shan‘ka. Out here, though.” He waved. 

“So, you guys farm renegade style,” John concluded. “Plant enough here and there and see what happens.”

Hemma had one bony arm draped over his eyes like he’d fallen asleep. 

“We have one more spot,” Juka urged.

“I think we’ve gathered e--”

“We don’t have full packs. And now we have to split it three ways.”

John glared at the kid. “And you have triple the bounty. I say we go before we run into trouble.”

“What do you think you’re here for?” Juka accused. “People like you don’t care about such things.”

_People like him._

John had forgotten.

Hemma and Juka harvested the last of the romari while he took watch. If things got bad, it’d be what? Five to one if only part of the Spraza out there were guards overseeing their workers.

_“What do you think you’re here for?”_

John wondered about the reputation he’d earned. He recalled snapshots of returning from the transports in bloodstained clothes and John didn’t need to think too hard. The Spraza were intent on their tasks, but he searched for patrols that could outflank them.

“We’re done; let’s go,” Juka said, hefting his knapsack. 

Hemma struggled with his while John eased his pack over his shoulders. He stepped in front of his charges then berated himself for thinking of them in those terms. “I’ll lead the way this time.”

“I’m not going to--

“Shut up!” John snarled, whirling on the kid. “Don’t talk unless I tell you to.” 

Juka stumbled a step back, an arm close to his chest.

John quickly turned away and set a demanding pace back. The mission was only half-way complete and there was a hell of a lot of desert ahead. They still had to worry about bandits and any Spraza wandering around. 

He scanned for hidey-holes, steering them away from possible ambush points which meant avoiding all rock formations and keeping them out in the open. The return trip was longer, the three of them in less than stellar health. Who knew holding a damn umbrella could throw one so completely off balance. Oddly enough all John wanted to do was remove his heavy boots and burn the socks that had fused to his feet. 

Endless silence, sun, and dirt. It messed with your head. Half the time he kept expecting the sounds of rotor blades, his gaze drifting from desert sands to desert skies. John gripped his knife harder and harder, reminding himself that he wasn’t carrying an automatic rifle. 

They marched onward and after what seemed forever the settlement loomed ahead.

Ketra waited for them at his cave with various scales and measures. John watched and waited in silence, drinking the last of the water from his dunka pouch. The second leg of the mission had felt more familiar, had put him in the proper head space. 

“I expected more,” Ketra bitched after weighing the items. “You should’ve hauled in better returns. If that many seedlings died, then you didn’t plant ‘em right.” The merchant handed out their shares in disgust. “You’ll need to do double next time or don’t bother coming back.”

John was glad he was still up for hire. He could return there alone, but he didn’t know where the romari were planted.

Hemma cracked his back and looked to Juka. “Be useful and take these in and separate what we’ll need for trade.” The older man snagged a piece of fruit, sucking on the juice and looked at John expectantly. “We’ll see you tomorrow?”

“We don’t need him!” Juka snarled. 

“You don’t make the decisions!” Hemma snapped back. 

Juka was furious. “And what about Teem?” 

“What’s done is done. We can’t live in the past,” Hemma lectured, his voice resigned. 

For the second time a person spat at John’s boots and stormed away. Hemma exhaled loudly and gingerly sat on the ground. “You’ll have to forgive my son. He lets his emotions cloud his judgment.”

“Your son?” John said, bewildered, all the verbal sparring falling in place. He guessed imprisoning a family wasn’t unheard of.

“Yes, he has many hard lessons to learn. What you _did_ … what you do at the transports.” Hemma shrugged nonchalantly. “He doesn’t understand about survival. There’s no right or wrong.” He looked up at John. “You’re a soldier. I know the signs. We all have our ways.”

John didn’t understand and didn’t want to. He had romari. He had food and enough left over for trade. He needed to get back to Ronon. But part of him, the voice that couldn’t be completely silenced, won out.

“Who’s Teem?”

Hemma’s wrinkles doubled as he stared at the ground. “He was my other son.”

All of John’s walls weren’t as rock solid as he thought. His legs got wobbly and he had to sit down. He stared at the same vacant spot on the ground, unable to look Hemma in the eye. “How?”

“It was a deep knife wound. It got infected. It happened three transports ago.”

Nine days? This was the reason for not breaking the rules in war. John could never remember that. He’d killed a stranger without knowing and it hadn’t hurt. 

Now he had two faces with names and the loss he’d caused was a hole in his gut.

Hemma looked at him with an unfathomable expression of pity, not knowing how wasted it was. “I save my hate for those who exiled my family here for my moral beliefs. Hold onto yours. It‘s our only show of defiance.”

That was the problem. John burned with self-hatred when all he wanted was to be numb. Numb and hard and able to resist whatever was thrown at him. 

Numbness would spare him from pain so raw and unfiltered that he found himself drowning in the middle of a desert.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

John embraced the dark, crawling further inside the cave by using touch and feel. There was no pier to disappear by, no city sensors to fool or catwalks to run over. There were push-ups, and if he did one more, maybe he’d be able to distract himself long enough to forget the reason for dragging himself in here. 

Ten, twenty, thirty reps. Not too hard, not too fast, or he’d over-perspire, and people maimed and killed over drops of water. 

But idle hands lead to idle thoughts. 

So, he did ten more, relishing burning biceps and a racing pulse. Limited exercise wasn’t distracting enough and his head filled with the nameless faces that stalked him. 

And he did ten more and ten more after that. 

In Atlantis he’d run until his legs couldn’t carry him, forcing all his mental baggage to the blackest corners of his mind. But this wasn’t home; it was eternal damnation. John forced all his weight upwards, elbows straight, shoulders locked, and held them there. 

He counted the seconds, then minutes. Sweat poured down his face and while his mind screamed, _wasting, wasting, wasting_ , he couldn’t reach the head space that a runner’s high carried him after eight brutal miles. 

He wouldn’t budge and tendons strained and muscles burned.

“Sheppard?”

“John?”

“What?” John growled.

“You were yelling.” Ronon’s outline came into the darkness.

“Just, ya know… got carried away.” 

“You sure?”

“Never better. You shouldn’t have come this far. You doing alright?”

“Fine.”

John’s arms finally gave out and he collapsed to the ground, breathing in dust and grit, and pressed his forehead into the sandstone. “Think I’m gonna sleep back here tonight, buddy. Got a long day tomorrow.”

It would be the third time harvesting romari, another day with Hemma and Juka and the ghost between them. 

“If you’re sure,” Ronon said, minus the sounds of actually leaving. 

“Go, big guy.” John didn’t hear anything and lost his patience. “That wasn’t a request!”

When Ronon dragged himself away, John flipped onto his back and pushed his palms into his eyes. He lay there for what felt like hours, freaking days, waiting for sleep. John couldn’t remember a time without nightmares or being plagued by the same thoughts when he was awake. 

There were brief reprieves without dreams, when his mind cracked open and all his troubles spilled out. Combat situations often warranted pharmaceutical help. Yellow pills to wind you up and white ones to knock you out. A hand sought his ace in the hole concealed inside a pants pocket. Ten needles controlled appetite, fifteen reduced anxiety. He‘d found out about that by accident. Self-medicating was a treacherous tightrope, but he was on the front lines where the choices were never black and white. 

John pinched several spines, spreading the oil across the pads of his fingers and licking the residue without thinking. God, all he wanted was a little peace, a few hours to get things back in focus and concentrate on the next march into the fire.

Squeezing his eyes closed, he started to solve the Riemann hypothesis, but his math kept drifting toward statistics. Suma to dunka ratios and rations per pound of body weight. Factoring battle casualty rate was instinct and John’s walls went up, his mouth filling with the bitter aftertaste of orris.

* * *

Spittle flew from Ketra’s mouth as he yelled at John, hands waving in obscene gestures. “Useless! You’re a complete waste of water!”

John waited for the merchant to run out of breath, letting the white noise wash over him. Juka stood right outside the shadow of the cave, and his father sat on the ground to cool down. 

“You deaf?...I oughta…I’d be better off….how did you ever…”

“You gonna pay me?” John growled.

“What?” Ketra asked, dumbstruck. 

John stepped closer, ignoring the overpowering perfumed oil. “I have things to do. We done?” 

Ketra laughed as if that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard, removing his blue turban to mop his brow. “I said to double yesterday’s.” 

“We tripled our first haul.”

“That was two cycles ago. This is now. Maybe I’ll hold onto your payment until you meet your quota.”

The merchant turned his back on him and John snagged a handful of linen and yanked Ketra hard, spinning him around. “I’m not a farmer; that’s not why I was hired.” Ketra’s body shook, in anger, perhaps fear. John gave the man a shove. “I’m paid to handle problems,” he said, rubbing at a bruise over his eye from ‘protecting’ their haul earlier. “Right?”

A minute later he walked away with a sackful of romari, his wheels spinning over where to bury it. In a couple of hours the transport would touch down and he didn’t want to have to make the trip to the cave twice. That’s when it dawned on him that he hadn’t bothered asking his business partner about tomorrow. 

They both knew he’d be back.

* * *

Funny how the most fucked up things became routine. Lying to your wife about calls in the middle of the night. Battling alien vampires millions of miles away then being deemed the foremost expert on them. Finding new ways to fight toward a water faucet and cutting down those in your way.

John plotted the weakest targets to take out, mapping the quickest routes toward the tanker when it arrived. In the meantime he tallied green and red painted faces to avoid, noticing how they‘d doubled. 

“Why’s the circus in town?” John growled under his breath. A man covered in wraps of yellow cloth snorted next to him and John returned the gaze. “Any idea when the clown cars show up?” he laughed and kept chuckling even when no one else got the joke. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said, eying him oddly. 

“I get that a lot,” John replied, watching thirty Spraza play chicken against dozens of Jad. “Guess they’re not done fighting.”

“Ziffka cut off the Spraza supply of topra ‘cuz of the price of fernandi.”

“That bad?”

“Spraza rule with numbers. Members die. It’s hard to jump new prisoners without topra.” The man’s goggles blinded John with the sun’s reflection. “Did the Spraza not come for you before?”

Before what? 

“I think so,” John replied, unsure. He didn’t dwell on yesterdays. 

“New prisoners are rebellious. It’s easier to subdue them by using topra dust. Less risk.”

And no fighting back.

* * *

John elbowed his way toward the front of the milling crowd, studious of the powder keg between both gangs circling like packs of wild dogs.

They were all voices and gang colors. 

“The Jad are nothing without orris!”

“Crawl on your knees and beg like women!”

“Tell Kadar we will fill our mouths with his water!”

“Come closer and tell us!”

“Suck our--”

Not all explosions were the result of chemicals, but this reaction was just as volatile. Fists, rocks, knives; pure violence. People scattered, bodies crashed, and you got away or were trapped and trampled. 

John ignored the screams and broke through the thinnest area of people, honing in on a single sound above the chaos: the tanker hovering at the horizon. He staked out his position with the others, avoiding the insurrection between the powerhouses. 

The fighting and blood loss between gangs benefited him. As the transport touched down, John didn’t care about anything else.

* * *

Ronon knew fighting – hand-to-hand, blade or gun, and a combination of all three. He understood survival, adapted to hostile environments, and learned how to turn the tables on the Wraith and hunt them in return. Boredom was a foreign state of mind and his constant companion. Sometimes he missed the hours of heavy sleep his illness had provided.

Raising a boulder for the thirtieth time, he strengthened biceps and triceps used to rigorous workout routines. Sheppard had lugged one weighing over fifty pounds inside, but Ronon longed for something double or triple the size. 

On days like today, his blood pulsed hot with envy at Sheppard’s ability to come and go. It wasn’t until Sheppard returned the way he did that such jealousy was knocked straight out of him. It didn’t stop the flames from smoldering when John deprived him of the knowledge of the outside world.

Ronon never recalled a time when another person’s words meant so much and were divvied out so little. 

Harvesting romari and success at the transports resulted in a small surplus of supplies. The trade wars benefited them since Sheppard’s payment was an item of increasing value. If the main staple of diet was unaffordable, it made romari a prized treasure. There was enough food and water to last over a week and they’d increased their rations slightly.

Sheppard came back from his sixth harvest and Ronon wondered which version of his friend would show up. 

“Look what I have!” Sheppard said, in a way of greeting. 

It was talkative Sheppard.

“What is it?” Ronon asked eagerly. 

Sheppard thrust something at him in the wrong direction since his vision hadn’t adjusted to darkness. Whatever it was had to be pretty exciting. Ronon grabbed the object, studying a pole…not of metal, but some sort of strong plastic alloy.

“It can take a lot of weight, not sure what it was part of, but I got it from one of those scavengers,” John blurted. 

Ronon swung it around like a sword.

“That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking, buddy.” Sheppard snatched it from him and shoved one end into the ground. “It’s a cane.”

Ronon didn’t dare cry. 

“I also traded for fabric with a type of elastic quality to it. Thought maybe we could use it to keep the bones in place.”

Ronon grabbed Sheppard around the shoulders and squeezed him into a bear hug. 

And hoped this Sheppard would stay.

* * *

Helplessness wasn’t in Ronon’s native vocabulary. ‘Help’ and ‘less’ existed, just not in conjunction with one another. For days Ronon lived and breathed in a state undefined in Satedan. No more. Now he had a road map and a tool to sever his shackles. 

Running had taught him to snag any opportunity and exploit it to the fullest. Each new day was a way to build on the last and standing on both his legs was finally within reach. The galaxy also taught him about balance, what Earthers called yin and yang. The very person who’d torn down a wall to his prison was sealing himself into his own.

Sheppard returned from the transports as he always did, much like soldiers trained in the Satedan military to execute the deadliest black ops. The men who didn’t have loved ones to face after doing the dirtiest missions, ones trained to dismiss words that _did exist_ in his language. Remorse, guilt, empathy. 

Sheppard was a great soldier, made tough choices, but he wasn’t cut from the same cloth as those specially trained not to be haunted by their decisions. Internal conflict left physical wounds. 

“Things go good?” Ronon asked.

“Peachy.” But Sheppard’s body language betrayed the lie. 

Ronon expected this, the joy of obtaining the cane a distant memory. “The gangs still fighting?”

“Oh, yeah. Today it made things…a challenge.”

Sheppard was doing that vacant stare thing again, his back against the cave wall, water containers discarded by his boots. He looked like hell. Ronon’s dreads had become mangy and knotted and he’d cut the ends off to keep them manageable. The lack of a mirror hadn’t hindered his ability to know the curves of his own face and he used the knife to shave. 

One day he carved teeth out of a cactus shell Sheppard had brought back to use as a comb. Despite the efforts at grooming, Sheppard’s hair reminded him of one of those Earth porcupine animals and his full beard served as another barrier to hide behind. 

Ronon stopped asking his friend if he was okay weeks ago, his eyes examining Sheppard daily for signs of injury instead. He spotted the way Sheppard protected his right arm and Ronon invaded his CO’s personal space without an invitation. 

“Lemme see,” Ronon said, his tone brooking no quarter.

Sheppard gave himself a mental shake and stared where his fingers were cradling his bicep. “Um…sure.”

Ronon took the offered arm and rolled up the baggy sleeve expecting a knife wound, but not the two rows of teeth marks. “Someone bit you?” he growled in outrage. 

Sheppard glanced down. “They did?”

“You didn’t notice?” Ronon accused.

“No,” Sheppard snarled. “Was kinda busy.”

“Too busy to feel teeth? You’ve got to stop this!”

“Stop what? Getting water? Gathering food?”

“No! But you can’t lose yourself out there, John! When we get home, you’ve got to face yourself in the mirror again,” Ronon snapped. “Whatever place you’re in now, it can’t shield you forever.”

“Last I checked Atlantis has no way to grab us. The Saurin blocked the ‘gate to their home world and they transported us to parts unknown!” 

“Sounds like you’ve given up already,” Ronon accused, fighting off the desire to clock Sheppard one to knock some sense into him.

“I haven’t given up! Christ, I’m just trying to get by.” All the fight left Sheppard and he pulled up his knees and bowed his head with a resigned, “Fuck.”

“We’ll find a way back. You taught me about the light at the end of the tunnel.” And they were lost in a very long freaking tunnel. Time healed wounds, not all of them, but months or years eased the pain. “We need to clean this before it gets infected,” Ronon said, indicating the wound and changing subjects. 

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Ronon wasn’t sure what he found more frightening – how easily Sheppard angered, or how quickly he succumbed.

* * *

Being an optimist was a draining task; it felt odd, like wearing someone else’s skin. Thinking about the future in a positive light vs. dealing with the here and now with detached realism was the biggest challenge Ronon had faced so far on this planet. 

Grinning and bearing the pain of physical therapy was far easier. Walking wouldn’t happen overnight, but in the meantime, there were other things to do.

“How many steps from the market to the Jad lair?” Ronon quizzed his friend. 

“Four hundred and thirty-six.”

Ronon drew a circle in yellow and went back over it with a crystalline piece that rubbed blue. 

“Green for the Jad, cute,” Sheppard humphed with a drink of water. 

Ronon had found minerals that left streaks in the three primary colors after a week of testing every piece of rock near him. He sketched a skull and crossbones above the circle to signify the landmark. “You’ve never gone further north of their lair?”

“No, but I can show you where some of their hidey-holes are scattered to jump people.”

“You’ve counted steps between them?”

“Yeah.” 

Ronon smiled.

Steps were a terrible scale; energy and stamina affected stride, but it was the only measurement they had. Sheppard was good at feeling out the length of a klick, which they used as a comparison measure, but it could be inaccurate, too. 

The map sprawled out of control, morphing into a mosaic of artistic renderings. He drew his visions of the Shan’ka, phantoms in layered blue robes, eyes, and skin as the symbol above the depository. 

“Creepy,” Sheppard muttered. 

Ronon might have spent too much time on the fuzzy hairs of the caterpillar things they ate and he really wanted different shades to represent the patchwork of fabrics sold by the merchants.

“You know you could just draw a big box and label it with the word _market_.”

“I can write English, but I don’t wanna hear you bitch about my spelling.” Ronon could’ve drawn a normal map, but this gave him something to do. 

It took a couple days to map the residential areas in relation to the market and all the other important destinations. The Shan’ka’s water stockpile, the buildings claimed by the Spraza, and anything between their shelter and the path toward the communal areas. 

Sheppard returned from each trip outside with new coordinates. Sites where neutral romari was planted, more intel on the borderlines of Spraza terrain. There were still large pockets of uncharted territory that frustrated Ronon. “The only way we’re gonna find a way to use the resources here to our advantage is to know where everything is,” he growled at the map. 

“The Spraza control most of the romari areas, except for random pockets,” Sheppard said, attempting to sew a tear in his shirt with a newly acquired bone needle. “They’ve bullied their way into controlling most of the food crops. Roots, trumalites, lompson, you name it, they have people patrolling the places to catch or farm the things.”

Ronon wondered if the bone used to be a finger. “Do you even know how to sew?”

“Not really.”

Ronon sighed. “I’ll fix it later.” He focused on the map. “That leaves the Tharsqin Sands and the…”

“The Void, not to mention the area south of us, but that’s where the Jad farm their drugs,” Sheppard answered, throwing the needle down. 

Ronon shook his head at his friend’s impatience. He wouldn’t complain; creating the map was the only time they’d spoken without tension. Ever since their recent confrontation, Sheppard was too calm and matter–of-fact about everything. 

He hated it. No one had ever agreed with Ronon as much as Sheppard had the past few days. “You forget how to think for yourself?” he barbed.

“I wish I could,” Sheppard replied cryptically.

* * *

Today Ronon was going to walk outside. He was supposed to wait until Sheppard got back from harvesting to help support his other side, but once he’d put on his socks and shoes in anticipation, his feet feeling familiar leather, he couldn’t wait. Pulling on his goggles, he shoved his cane into the ground and emerged from the cave. The sun beat down on his face as he rose to his full height, limbs trembling, his right leg threatening to buckle. Shifting his weight, he leaned more onto the plastic pole, and the shaking eased.

Finally he was out of his prison and Ronon hobbled, loving the exertion. He’d never take being vertical for granted again as vertebrae snapped when his back stretched. Staring off at the horizon, he gazed at the white and orange wasteland. It smelled of dirt and sand and…metal?

“Nice day for a walk,” a familiar voice echoed off the canyon wall.

Ronon spun around, almost falling in the process. A bulky guy stood in a gray robe that hung a couple inches short of his ankles, revealing black pants and leather boots. The hood was baggy; layers of fabric concealed his entire face, but there was no mistaking that build or smug voice. 

“Malvick,” Ronon growled.

“Awww, you learned my name. I‘m touched,” Malvick chuckled. “No need introducin’ yourself. I know yours, Ronon. And before you ask, your friend said it loudly enough times for the whole Void to hear.”

That must have been when he was sick and Sheppard had been frantically trying to wake him. Ronon didn’t want to lean any heavier on his cane, revealing his weakness, but the toll of staying perfectly still when his leg wanted to fold was immense.

“You ever tell your friend about the last time you came out here?” Even under the hood Ronon knew the guy was smirking.

“You gonna to tell me why you care?”

“What’s the fun in that?”

Buckets poured down Ronon’s face and Malvick leaned against the cave entrance. “Aren’t ya gonna invite me in? We can stare at each other in the dark.”

Ronon gestured for Malvick to go first, following right behind him. They settled opposite one another, Ronon’s leg screaming in relief and Malvick perfectly at ease. “Why are you here?” Ronon asked, getting straight to the point.

“I was gonna check out the fresh meat arriving later and thought I’d say hello to my neighbor,” Malvick replied, pulling down his hood. 

Ronon wanted a razor that shaved a head that perfectly smooth. “What fresh meat?”

“The newbies getting booted out later. Happens every forty cycles.”

“Another prison transport?” Ronon leaned closer. “They come on a schedule?”

Malvick’s laugh was a loud rumble. “For years. Got to have a place to throw people away.”

“But the Saurin live in secret. Where are they getting all the prisoners?” 

“Who were you and your friend? Another group that told them _no_ when they wanted to ‘trade’. Not that most planets have anything other than sticks and knives. But there are always natural resources to exploit, bits of Ancestor tech here and there.” Malvick ran a meaty hand over his domed head. “How do you think they got so smart? They take what they want.”

“Not everyone here’s a criminal?” Ronon asked, confused by the brutality of the other prisoners.

“Define criminal? Is it a crime to survive?” Malvick smiled. “Some of the others are thieves and murderers from the worlds the Saurin steal from. They stick around, grabbin’ every scrap of technology from a city….then take out the trash for the _betterment of the worlds_ they’re on,” Malvick spat. 

“I can’t wait to kill them,” Ronon replied.

“Get in line.”

Malvick laced his fingers behind his head, the sleeves rolling down to reveal tattoos on his bulging arms. Ronon glanced at the detailed designs and grunted his approval.

Malvick gestured at the wall behind Ronon. “I see you like art.” 

“Maybe,” Ronon growled defensively.

“Inked these myself,” Malvick said, pulling out his hands from where they’d made a pillow and flexed his biceps. “Gotta take pride in somethin’.” 

Ronon found himself nodding. 

“Looks like you got the scale pretty good,” Malvick said, studying the map.

Ronon shifted out of the way; this was an intel session. “Wasn’t sure about that.”

Malvick cocked his head. “Prison transport’s comin’. We’ll have to chat another time.”

“You take some of the prisoners?” Ronon asked, not hearing any engines.

“I just watch. Like to see all the fresh faces.”

It was a bald-faced lie, but Ronon wasn’t going to push. He’d get nothing truthful.

Malvick got to a crouch, still studying the map. “These areas are romari plots.”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know the locations?”

Ronon thought about lying, but decided not to. “That’s where Sheppard’s harvested them.”

Malvick removed his goggles and stared closer, tapping a finger on one of the dots. “He’s picking romari here?”

“Yeah.” Ronon’s gut twisted. “Why?”

“Cuz…” Malvick paused, putting his goggles back on. “Those three spots are fine,” he indicated the closer dots, “but these three are deep in Spraza territory. They’re not the main fields, probably hidden stashes.”

“No, you’re wrong. He goes with two others; they said it was on the border,” Ronon growled.

“They’re lying.” Malvick traced a wavy line down the middle of the six dots. “This is where the Spraza border starts.”

Ronon’s heart slammed against his ribcage, the beating drowned out by approaching engine noise. 

“Gotta go.”

“Wait!” Ronon turned his head, but Malvick was gone.

And he was left staring at Sheppard’s position in enemy territory with no way to warn him.

* * *

John was filthy, covered head to toe in orange dust. A small sandstorm had kicked up on the way back and he’d be spitting dust out of his mouth for days. They’d hit pay dirt and he’d swapped two fat sacks of romari for supplies, some of that burning oil for light, and a flint rock to start a flame. 

The world shimmered in shades of gray behind his goggles and he was adjusting the straps over his shoulders when the front of his body was plowed into rock. 

His chin bounced off sandstone, along with his shoulders and knees. Fingers yanked his scalp back, and slammed his forehead into the canyon wall. Pain ricocheted through his skull and his assailant wrenched his hair back for another bounce off the rock. John managed to swing an elbow and connected with flesh, forcing the bastard to let go of his hair. 

Blood roared in his ears and the world spun dizzyingly. A large body behind him blocked any attempt to get away and he lashed out wildly, his fist slamming an iron jaw. There was a grunt and the mass staggered back enough for John to get away from the wall, but not before a thick band of muscle wrapped around his throat, throttling him. 

He didn’t get to take a good breath before his larynx started to get crushed. John flailed, body bucking and squirming. And another arm joined the first and squeezed harder.

Dots danced across his vision and muscles forgot how to work, but he dropped his hand and tingling fingers curled around a handle. His feet were lifted slowly off the soil and an internal voice screamed _knife, knife, knife!_

Endorphins or sheer force of will. There was no telling what gave him that last burst of energy. One second he was circling the drain, and the next, he’d sunk the blade into his foe‘s forearm.

The scream deafened his left ear, but John didn’t stop there. The knife was still buried in muscle, so he twisted it, and the screaming became blood-curdling shrieks. The choke-hold was released and John fell to his knees as air rushed into his lungs. 

Then hands grabbed him from everywhere.

“No!” he rasped.

“Get him on the ground!”

Screw that. Elbows, hands, and knees pinned him down. John kicked and writhed against the collective weight, but all his energy was depleted. 

His goggles had been knocked down and he squinted at the six pairs staring down at him. Droplets of sweat rolled off those looming above, splashing on his cheeks and chin. The sunlight washed out everyone into fuzzy blobs, but John didn’t need to see the stripes of red paint to confirm he was totally fucked. 

“Killing me…is…against the law,” he panted. 

“Who said we were gonna kill ya?”

It was Kadar. The leader of the Spraza crouched in John’s line of sight, blocking out the sun, running the side of his chin against a boulder bigger than his hand.

“You‘re not?” John quipped.

“We’re gonna smash your knees.” John froze in horror and Kadar smiled. “Hold his left leg still.”

_GOD, NO._

John jackknifed, jerking both legs enough that the first blow glanced painfully off the side of his patella bone. 

“Idiots! Sit on them if you have ‘ta.”

Suddenly his shins were rooted in place and John screamed so loud, he started to go hoarse. 

“That’s it,” Kadar purred.

“Let him go!” someone shouted.

“What business is it of yours?” Kadar snarled.

Who the hell was that? John knew that voice, but he couldn’t budge.

“We’re makin’ it ours.”

_We?_ John craned his neck, seeing only sunspots.

“This is retribution,” Kadar hissed.

“We defend our friends.”

_Ziffka? What the hell?_

“We’re owed justice. Go back to your hole.”

Several bastards still sat on John and he could barely breathe. “Justice for what?” he croaked.

Someone whopped him in the jaw. “Shudup.”

“He has a point. What crime has this man committed?”

John knew that voice, too. The representative from the Shan’ka had joined the ruckus, making John the party favor.

“You brought _him?_ What game is this, Ziffka?” Kadar hissed.

“Let 45482 go,” Misha ordered.

Oxygen was a sweet, sweet thing and John sucked every drop as he scrambled to his feet. The world tilted sideways and he swayed before standing to his full height. _Ow._ The blow to his knee was going to cost him.

He fumbled for goggles that still hung around his neck, forcing the swelling joint to straighten. “Wanna tell me what this was about?”

“You took romari from our territory,” Kadar accused. 

But there was more to it. John had disgraced the man in front of fresh recruits and his number two. The man wanted blood. “Would that be a recognized territory? With a border crossing or two?”

“You dare mock me?” Kadar spat on the ground. “You stole from the Spraza.”

“What proof do you have of this?” Misha inquired.

John couldn’t believe his ears. “On what map?”

“Silence!” Misha snapped. He was judge and jury in layers of sanctimonious blue fabric. “There is only one law here. And that is of the Shan’ka.” The Spraza bristled. “But. The Shan’ka respect the rules that have kept order. It is known what lands have been claimed by certain groups. Did you take the property of the Spraza, prisoner 45482?”

“No,” John replied vehemently.

“Really?” Kadar smiled. 

With a quick snap of his fingers a small hunched figure came out from behind a couple of larger Spraza. Hemma hobbled over slowly; the last days of harvesting had not been kind to him. “I informed Kadar of the theft. I saw it with my own eyes,” he informed Misha. 

The old man looked at John without words, but none were needed. They all did what they had to do for survival. Didn’t they?

Kadar hummed in anticipation. “You heard the man. He’s guilty. We‘ve been wronged.” 

This wasn’t Earth. It was tribal law Medena style.

“It would appear so,” Misha stated when John made no attempt to defend himself.

The Spraza started to surround him. This was it, but John wouldn’t go down without a fight. His knife had gotten lost in the scuffle, but maybe he’d get a few licks before they maimed him. 

“Enough!” Misha growled, stepping forward, causing the Spraza to back off. “Why did you wait to seek your justice? Why not in the act?”

“To show others what happens when you defy us,” Kadar announced. 

“It seems we are at a crossroads,” Misha said.

“If I may suggest something to the one who has the ear of the Shan’ka,” Ziffka said, nearly curtseying in front of Misha.

The Jad had been so silent that John had nearly forgotten their presence. 

“Go on,” Misha encouraged.

John got a sinking feeling when Ziffka paraded forward. “There is Shan’ka law and there’s the law of the Medena . When there are problems, the balick matches have solved them.”

“The matches are near,” Misha agreed. “Would this be satisfactory to the Spraza?”

Kadar’s clenched jaw was evidence enough that he’d prefer his earlier plan, but John got the feeling Misha’s offer wasn‘t a suggestion. “Fine.”

“Then it is settled,” Misha announced.

John’s brain still felt smashed against the front of his skull. He hadn’t a clue what was going on. “What’s settled?”

“Our vengeance will be made between the lines of the balick matches,” Kadar said, staring at John in zeal. “You can’t hide near the Void anymore.”

“Don’t think he has anything to hide from,” Ziffka said, toeing a large sprawled body with his boot. “Looks like you lost another member.”

Kadar snorted. “Just a recruit who failed his test. There’ll be more.”

Misha knelt down next to the large corpse, the spreading blood pool saturating the ends of his blue robes. “This should have been collected properly.” John had hit an artery and his attacker had bled out. “Possessions and water will be transferred to 45482,” Misha said, inspecting the body and recovering the bloodied knife. “This is yours.”

John curled his fingers around the handle without sparing the corpse a second glance. “You’re talking about a fight?” Nothing like old-fashioned methods to solve your differences. “Like boxing?”

Kadar grinned and his hyena entourage followed him toward their lair or wherever gangs hung out. The Jad milled about whispering to each other, but Misha stood in front of John, which was weird because didn’t he have a body to wrap up in a tarp for his overlords?

“The balick matches have no rules. The person left standing is the winner.”

John was more interested in the Jad and their secret conversations. 

“The matches can be good, though. They calm tensions, release the need for violence,” Misha kept explaining.

Hemma waited in the shade of the canyon. Funny how he hadn’t left with the Spraza. The leader of the Jad handed the old man a suma of water.

“Sometimes leaders have used them to end disputes, even rivalries,” Misha droned on.

John walked away from the Shan’ka puppet and stopped in front of Hemma. “The Spraza didn‘t put you up to this, did they?”

Hemma struggled with the suma of water. “No.”

Ziffka's eyes danced in excitement and he snapped at one of his minions. “Pick up his fallen supplies. We want him strong for the balick matches.”

Two Jad brought over John’s container of water and knapsack with Ziffka fluttering about in nervous energy behind them. “My men could carry it for you. No need to waste energy.”

Misha hung back in silence, watching in the distance as the Shan’ka approached to retrieve the dead body. 

John knew if he decked the drug leader it’d earn him a beat down. “Seems like a lotta effort to get me into a fight. I do that every day. Don’t think it’ll solve your turf war.”

“You are wrong, my friend. You will win your match, injuring or killing Spraza. And once you win, you cannot stop. Those are the rules.”

John’s head whirled; he wasn’t sure if he was more pissed, terrified, or maybe none of the above.

Ziffka wrapped a bony arm around John‘s shoulders, oblivious to his revulsion. “A champion fights until he loses or until all five balick matches end. Whichever is first. Either way, the Jad win.”

John had graduated from hired thug to mercenary. A pawn in a gang war. He’d take out the stronger members of the Spraza and the Jad wouldn’t have to risk a single member to dwindle down the numbers of their enemies.

* * *

Ronon counted his footfalls, the map in his head guiding him across the baked clay ground. Today began with his first five steps in weeks, and on the fortieth, his leg collapsed under him. “No!” he snarled, biting back the pain. Broken bones were nothing new, but illness had prolonged healing and now Sheppard would pay the price.

Getting up took three tries, and even then, he was stuck between the cave and over two thousand steps toward the settlement. He ripped off his goggles and gaped at the cloudless sky, eyes drifting over the gray patch above the mountain range behind their shelter and the outline of a small moon above it. What caused such a thing?

If McKay were here, he’d have an answer. Pondering led to false hope, yet hope was all he had to hang on to. Standing up lasted three seconds before he fell back down. 

But then he saw it. A moving shadow across the backdrop. “Sheppard,” he breathed, jabbing the cane against the bedrock, nearly snapping it. 

Ronon forgot about his leg and the damned sun, tallying the strides until Sheppard reached him. 

“What…the hell…are you doing outa the cave?” Sheppard demanded, crumpling beside him.

“Waiting for you.”

* * *

Ronon noticed Sheppard’s limp, and when they stumbled inside, he mumbled, “sit” and “your pants.” Sheppard got the message and started fumbling with his bootlaces. 

Ronon’s head ached from being in the heat too long and Sheppard sported all the signs of another concussion. Ice packs would have been nice, especially for Sheppard’s swollen knee. 

“Good thing we have some of the elastic fabric left,” Ronon said, wrapping the last three layers around the joint. “Hope this is enough.”

“Better than nothing,” Sheppard replied, eyes squinting as if they were still experiencing bright light. 

Ronon was full of questions, and for the first time, he knew what it felt like to be a frustrated scientist. “What happened? Was it the Spraza?”

“Yeah.”

“You were harvesting in their territory,” Ronon explained, baffled at the sight of two packs of supplies. 

“Yeah, I was. How did you know? I just learned about it,” Sheppard asked, his voice betraying exhaustion.

“Malvick paid me another visit. He saw the map and pointed it out.”

Sheppard flexed his knee and grimaced. “Where’s he now?”

“He left when the new prison transport arrived.”

Sheppard’s head snapped up. “New prisoners were dropped off? That’d explain where the healthy ten ton ox came from.”

“The Spraza sent someone after you?” 

“They threw me a party, complete with a fun filled game of _let’s break someone’s kneecaps_ ,” Sheppard joked lamely.

Their enemies couldn’t kill Sheppard because of the laws, but that left everything else fair game. “You’re a target.”

“That’s nothing new.”

“Yes, it is. You went from an annoyance to a threat. They won’t stop now.” 

Sheppard let out a strange chuckle, scratching at his beard. “Funny thing about that.”

Ronon didn’t find a damn thing funny, but his friend seemed very amused by it in that half-crazy Sheppard kind of way. Which would be fine if this was on Atlantis, but Sheppard’s usual brand of crazy had been replaced by all kinds of insane of late. 

“How’d you escape?” 

“I didn’t,” Sheppard answered and then his smile disappeared. “I get to join their fight club.”

Ronon listened about the double crosses, the vein pulsing furiously along his forehead. “Don‘t go.”

“No choice. They’d grab me when I left for either food or water and I can’t hide here.”

“When‘s the first match?”

“In three days, then three days after that.”

Ronon snatched his cane. “You said there was plenty of room in the back of the cave?” 

“Last I checked”

“Enough to stand up and move around in?”

Sheppard rubbed a hand wearily across his face. “Yeah.”

“You got some of that oil?”

“I did,” Sheppard said, annoyed. 

“Stop nursing your aches and pains and follow me,” Ronon ordered. “Bring the oil and something to burn.”

“Alright,” Sheppard said, scrambling up. “Mind telling me what we’re gonna do?”

“I’m going to teach you a few moves to save your life.”

* * *

Ronon sparred with Teyla for teaching and learning purposes and with Sheppard to stay in shape. Sheppard preferred shooting things in battle, but his hand-to-hand skills needed improvement. 

His CO trained with the Marines (Sheppard said it was only fair) and had years of training, but that didn’t mean he’d survive multiple rounds of bare knuckle fighting against hardened thugs. 

“Go for a quick take down. Don’t turn it into an endurance match. It’ll open you up for injury.”

“Don’t think I’d last five matches if they went too long,” Sheppard agreed.

“Know how to push the cartilage of the nose into someone’s brain?”

“Yeah.”

“Here’s another way,” Ronon said. “Instead of using the palm, grab the nose and twist like this,” he said, demonstrating it on Sheppard.

They worked on the technique until he was satisfied. “Come at me. I‘ll show you a few new counter moves.”

“You can barely stand, buddy,” Sheppard argued. 

Ronon answered by charging him and got spun into a wall. “Good,” he grunted. 

For the two hours they grappled Ronon earned a few shots to face, maybe even a black eye. In return he smacked Sheppard with his cane, knocked him down dozens of times, and showed him how to protect his knee.

The two finally slumped against the wall, panting side by side, taking sips of water, Ronon staring at the shadows dancing across the walls. “You never mentioned getting a torch.” 

“Market wasn’t busy…guess because of the prison transport. I never heard it land, must’ve been too far away,” Sheppard replied, pressing the dunka pouch to his forehead. 

“Where does the fabric and oil come from?” Ronon asked curiously. 

“South of the area is apparently what passes for farmland here. _Piff_ stalks are fairly abundant; they have these fuzzy blossoms like cotton and the stems are dried and spun into thread. And there’s some alien corn thing that’s poisonous, but they press the kernels into oil.”

Ronon’s eyes grew heavy from the burning oil’s pleasant aroma. “Who controls the land?”

“No one… well, kinda no one. The Jad don’t bother people searching for plants if they tell them when they discover orris patches. Stuff’s wild and hard to grow. And the land’s too big to patrol.”

“So, the Jad _do_ control it.”

“The Jad guard the border going in and out.”

“Good use of manpower,” Ronon agreed. “Can see why they have access to herbs.”

Sheppard rubbed at his temples. “Yeah. They harvest the topra that the Spraza used to knock us out when we arrived. If they can’t control any foodstuffs, then drugs are the next best thing.”

Ronon patted Sheppard’s shoulder. “We should get some rest. We’ll train more tomorrow.”

“Goody.”

“Gonna show you the dirtiest moves I know.”

“Thought the Genii wrote the book on those,” Sheppard snorted, not bothering to get up.

Ronon grunted, getting to his feet with his cane. “You coming?” 

“Be there in a minute. Plan on basking in the coolness for a while.”

Ronon wondered if he’d been too rough. Sheppard’s skin was pale and sweaty; fresh bruises darkened under his right eye and peppered his arms where he’d been manhandled. He’d do anything to go out in his place and if Sheppard didn’t return from one of those matches, he’d hunt every last Spraza down and splatter their entrails.

Ronon quickly banished the thought out of his mind. He'd been given a job, to prepare Sheppard and help him win even if he couldn’t fight by his side.

* * *

The time for sleep had come and gone and normally Sheppard would join Ronon for breakfast. “Come on!” he yelled.

There was no sight or sound of the colonel and Ronon grabbed his cane and made the painful drag/crawl toward him. Sheppard was sprawled on his back and Ronon hobbled over to nudge him in the leg. 

After the third failed attempt to wake him, Ronon was in full-on panic mode. Sheppard was a military man and habitual light sleeper. He shook him by the shoulders and checked a pulse that was strong, but oddly slow. Sheppard’s skin felt like chilled meat and words like head trauma and internal injuries screamed in Ronon’s mind.

Had Sheppard been hurt worse than he’d thought? Was there bleeding in the brain or had the food been poisoned? If so, why hadn’t he felt any adverse effects? “Damn it, get up!” And Ronon slapped Sheppard’s face hard.

Sheppard bolted awake, eyes wide and bleary, but his right hook still packed a punch. Ronon was stupidly slow and his mouth filled with a copper tang where his teeth gnashed the inside of his cheek. He secured Sheppard’s wrist as the man blinked away the cobwebs.

“John, it’s me,” Ronon said, spitting blood. “You understand?”

He didn’t think so, not with that spaced-out stare that had Ronon still thinking head trauma. 

“Yeah,” Sheppard growled, jerking his hand out of Ronon’s grasp. “Whatz th’ matter?”

Ronon picked up the torch he’d used to find his way back and held it like a flashlight. “Look at me. You know your name?”

“John Sheppard. Lieutenant Colonel, USAF. 324548625. You’re Ronon and you’re loud and we’re stuck in _Dante’s Inferno_.”

“You never used to be such an asshole this early in the morning.”

“Is it morning? Did you check outside?” Sheppard rubbed his eyes. “Mm’ gonna go back to sleep.”

“No time for that, you have to train more,” Ronon said, funneling all his frustration and lingering worry into being a taskmaster. 

Clearly Sheppard forgot what it was like getting up at dawn with little shut eye. He looked like death warmed over and part of Ronon thought rest would do his friend good after yesterday’s events. Then again, Sheppard would get all the sleep in the world if he were dead.

“Come on,” Ronon ordered, slapping his cane against the ground. “We’ll eat and warm up.”

“Don’t make me regret getting that thing,” Sheppard mumbled, getting on his hands and knees. “Excuse me while I…you know.”

“I cooked your favorite by the way,” Ronon hollered.

“Really? Blueberry waffles?”

That sounded more like Sheppard. “How about caterpillar pancakes and romari?”

Sheppard returned from the piss pot, appearing marginally more awake. “I’ll take steak and eggs instead.” 

“You should really try to shave. It’d make you feel--”

“More human?”

“Was gonna say better.” Ronon appraised him. “How’s the knee?”

“Stiff. Guess we should loosen it up.”

At least Ronon could cope with Sheppard’s mood swings by hitting him a lot.

* * *

Ronon stood with the constant aid of the wall or his cane, sometimes both. This was the best type of physical therapy for his leg, the kind that’d piss off most doctors. What he lacked in mobility, he compensated for with his new weapon, using it to knock Sheppard’s feet out from under him again.

“The matches are hand to hand,” Sheppard panted.

“I know,” Ronon responded, dropping the cane and reaching for Sheppard’s throat with his hands. Ronon’s chest met with a boot, the rest of him thrown to the ground by his own momentum. 

This time Sheppard loomed over him and Ronon waited for the right moment. “Don’t forget your opponent’s desperation.” And he threw sand in Sheppard’s face. 

Temporarily blinded, Sheppard stumbled backwards and Ronon staggered up, grabbing him by the hair. “They’ll stoop low to gain any advantage.”

“Like biting your wrist?” Sheppard said, eying Ronon’s exposed hand.

“Exactly,” Ronon said, letting go, just in case Sheppard was in the mood to be cute with a demonstration. 

They rested often to give Ronon’s leg and Sheppard’s knee a break. The workouts were vital, but not at the cost of wearing Sheppard out before the first match. 

As the afternoon wore on, Sheppard stopped holding back in consideration of Ronon’s injury and the _training_ became all-out battles. Ronon couldn’t remember the last time he’d fought at such a disadvantage and had to overcompensate by working twice as hard. 

It was all about being on the offensive, using his skills to drive Sheppard away. It was upper body. Punches, elbows, and throws. Any lower body tactics, the stuff he loved, the kicks, all the groundwork had to be discarded for power moves. 

But it forced Sheppard on the defensive, which was the style he’d most likely use in the fights. If the Spraza were smart, they’d use their heavier, more brutal members. The bar room brawler types. Short fuses with iron fists, but no finesse. No strategy beyond punchy, punchy. But Sheppard had been on the planet less than most of them and still had a slightly healthier advantage.

Strangely enough Ronon had never encountered this Sheppard before. His CO usually took sparring seriously, but with lazy motivation, always holding back for the _real thing_. This Sheppard was ferocious, rabid even. 

Ronon’s leg had finally had enough and crumbled under him during a move, but Sheppard was on top of him. The first punch he allowed; the second ticked him off. Ronon blocked the next two and grunted, “Enough.” Sheppard reared back for another and Ronon head-butted him. “I said enough!”

Sheppard landed on his ass, stunned, and massaged his forehead with a grimace. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Ronon rubbed at his screaming leg, deciding he’d pushed it enough. “No, it’s good. Save the rest for tomorrow.”

He crawled over to the torch and blew out the flames with every intention of returning up front to fix dinner. His entire body ached, and the bones in his leg throbbed fiercely. Closing his eyes was only natural, allowing sleep to take him.

* * *

A throng of Jad waited for John halfway down his journey; one of the nameless thugs extended a sun cover over him. There were eight of them hidden beneath rags and robes, stone knives on display on all their hips. Ziffka was the proud peacock, a turban of various greens on top of his head with a large piece of cloth that hung down his back and fell across his shoulders. 

Ziffka opened his arms in greeting, water stone necklaces clanking across his chest. “Our champion deserves the best escort into the ring. Come,” he said, grabbing an elbow and pulling John into their protective numbers. “You will not walk alone to the match.”

“Afraid I wouldn’t show? Considering I have you to thank for the upcoming fun.” 

Ziffka wrapped an arm around John‘s shoulder and hissed in his ear, “You speak with an ungrateful tongue. I’ll let you keep it. When you reap the rewards, you’ll speak to me with more respect.” Patting him hard on the back, the gang leader proclaimed. “After the match, we will all get drunk on _haskin fire_!”

John selfishly welcomed the idea of drinking himself into a stupor.

* * *

Like flies to honey, enthusiastic hordes followed them into the underground caves, flooding the tunnels. He’d adapted to the disgusting odor of the masses, but without the outside to filter the pungent stench, John found himself gagging inside the narrow channel packed with bodies. Rough hands gripped John’s arms, yanking him through the passageway; eyes just adjusted to darkness squinted against rows of blazing torches and watered from burning herbs. A roar greeted their arrival, and a rancorous mob, hungry for blood, drowned out John’s thoughts. 

“Move!” 

“Outa the way.”

It was a dizzying assault on the senses and John forced all the stimuli back to a dull, muted throb. People swelled inside the cave, encircling roughly a ten by ten meter space with Ziffka in the center, waving his hands, rallying the crowd to a fever pitch. Hours, days, even months of back breaking work under a broiling sun all came down to this. 

Kadar arrived with his minions and it tripped a release valve of building energy and the mob swarmed, pushing everyone closer together. Both gangs postured and growled at one another, and at any second, John expected the place to erupt in an explosion of fists and knives. 

Strangely, he was immune to the raging hormones bubbling over around him. All it’d take was a random spark to ignite this powder keg; that was until everyone parted like the Red Sea for the arrival of the newest player in this twisted drama. 

A figure strode in, concealed by a long, flowing black robe; a pair of heavy boots crunched the dirt in the now hushed room. The ravenous circle hustled backwards, allowing a sliver of breathing room.

“You guys startin’ the party without me?” a voice chuckled from inside the hood. Layers of cloth fell away from the hulking set of muscles underneath, and the man rolled an enormous bald head, popping his bulging neck. “We all here?”

“The Spraza are here to avenge the theft of our lands and--”

“Yeah, no one cares,” the man rumbled, dismissing Kadar without a glance. Torches reflected off his goggles as he surveyed the room, the masses feeding off his attention, all the murmuring returning to its earlier frenzied excitement. Holding out his hands, he controlled the volume like a conductor. “Save all that energy for the match.”

Turning his focus on a fuming Kadar, he gestured with the flick of his fingers. “Bring your fighter.” 

The Spraza that stepped forward was a bulldog of a man with a thick neck, matching Ronon’s size with a few extra pounds. Guy had to be fresh from the prison transports, looking for a way to prove himself. There were more tats across his body than actual skin, with a gigantic bird of flames painted over his massive bare chest and a mohawk of freshly dyed green hair. 

“Name?” their host asked.

“Horne.” 

“And you?” 

John didn‘t budge. “You know who I am. Didn’t catch yours, though,” he said, aware of the answer.

“Malvick, but you already knew that.”

“Yeah, not a big fan of uninvited guests. Don’t have time to polish the silverware or roll out the red carpet.”

“I hope you live so we can chat later,” Malvick laughed. “Now gimme the blade.”

John gripped the only advantage he had in this pit. “Like hell.”

“You’re making the natives restless. Hand it over or I’ll take it from your broken fingers. Your choice.” John wouldn’t relent and it amused the hell out of Malvick. “Tell ya what. If you win and something happens to it, you can have one of mine.” Proving his sincerity, he pulled up layers of his robe, revealing one of several seven-inch daggers of steel hung on his belt. 

This guy didn’t need to steal John’s weapon and there was no escaping the match. He flipped it handle up and Malvick slipped into his belt. 

The demon of the Void spread out his arms and addressed the crowd. “Talk’s a waste of breath. We all know why we‘re here.”

The place erupted in cheers and whistles; Horne pumped them up even more by raising and shaking his fists. Those with money, the merchant class as it were, stood on a large stone platform, exchanging a lot of somethings back and forth. They shouted numbers over the roar of the crowd and John realized they were making wagers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of mustard clothes. Lyle, always the go-to guy, was the center of activity, strings of water stones looped around his arms to protect all the bets.

Malvick grandstanded in the middle of the loose circle and gestured for both fighters to step forward. “I’ll make this short. No weapons allowed. Other than that…” He shrugged. “The person left conscious is the winner. All deaths are clean. _No reviews_.”

A jolt of energy ripped through the atmosphere, spurring people closer, sandals and bare feet edging the imaginary ring. John ignored the roars and sweltering heat; sweat already plastered his hair and soaked through his clothes. Horne had the right idea going shirtless. 

“Take three steps back,” Malvick ordered. John and his opponent obeyed, and Malvick waited and waited some more, revving things to a crescendo. Men pounded the ground with their feet, hurling insults, whistling. A final round of flurried betting exchanged between filthy hands, the desperate trying to earn a quick payoff.

Malvick raised both hands then flung them down. “ _Alma_!” he shouted and stepped out of the way.

Horne hung back, searching for a strike point. John studied his eyes, waiting for the man to make the first move. Facial expressions were reflexive actions, triggering tiny muscle spasms milliseconds before the rest of the body. Horne’s left eye twitched and John anticipated the lunge.

Right hook, left cross. John ducked both and went low, pummeling the guy with shots to the solar plexus. Then he sent a knee into his gut. Horne let out an _oomph_ , staggering back, stunned. 

John seized the opening, balled both hands into a double fist, and smashed them into Horne’s face. Blood streamed from his mouth and John shifted, swinging for the throat. 

Horne side-stepped and shoved his shoulder into John’s middle, tackling him through the crowd scrambling to get out of their way. John’s spine crashed into the nearest wall, knocking the breath out of him. Horne grabbed two handfuls of shirt and slammed John repeatedly into the stone until his whole body throbbed.

Horne panted, his breath hot on John’s face as he shook him by the shoulders. “I’m gonna make this hurt.”

John responded, smashing the heel of his boot into the Spraza’s ankle. Horne howled and hurled John to the ground and he landed painfully on his hands and knees, skidding several feet away. 

_Next time, shed the shirt_ , John thought as he tried to get up. A sandal impacted his left side, once, then twice, and he rolled away before a third kick broke a rib. 

He looked up to gain his bearings and earned a fist to the face, knocking him flat onto his back. 

John stayed there, watching Horne approach, biding his time for the right moment.

_There._

He snagged Horne’s right foot with both feet and jerked hard, knocking the man down. Sitting up, he grabbed the same ankle, used his boot to brace it, and bent it at a sharp angle, snapping it with one rough twist.

There was screaming and writhing on the ground, but John’s muscles and motion were on autopilot. Scrambling to his feet, he zeroed in on the most vulnerable spot, the green mohawk a perfect painted arrow. There was a _crunch_ , boot leather impacting skull. Horne was a boneless sprawl of limbs, John looming over him.

Malvick stepped over from the side and knelt down for a pulse. Standing, he seized John’s hand in a grip of titanium, raising it high. “The victor!”

It was like someone turned off the mute button and the forgotten crowd bellowed in conflicting emotions. Booing clashed with ecstatic cheers. Those not giving John obscene gestures were too busy trying to gather their winnings. 

“Is he alive?” John growled, jerking his hand, but unable to break Malvick‘s grip.

Malvick pressed hard enough to bruise then gave a small smile, releasing John‘s hand. “For now. But a crippled man is a useless one.”

John glared at the pair of goggles staring calmly back. “It’s not a serious injury. A month and--”

“And what? He’ll hobble about? Eating and shitting away resources? Don’t think so.”

Spraza filled the ring, greedy hands stripping their fallen member of cloth and possessions, carelessly dragging the naked body away by his dirty feet. 

John wanted out. _Now_. As soon as he searched for a certain knife stealing bastard who’d slipped away.

An arm draped around his shoulder and Lyle pulled John toward him with a kiss to each cheek. Shocked, John stared into the glazed eyes of the merchant. “You made me a lot of money, friend. No one knows you like I do. Knows about the man who grasps for things he can’t possibly reach and finds a way to hold on. The odds were high; always bet on the guy they think won‘t win.”

John disentangled himself and made an escape. 

And spun into a wall of Jad bare chests and skin. “You guys gonna move?”

“And lose our champion?” one of them asked.

“You’re staying right here,” another said.

“The hell I am,” John breathed. 

Wherever he turned, a stinking, sweating asshat with smeared green paint stood in his way. There were ‘congrats’ and ‘good fight’ and smacks to the arms and back. When the next hand touched his shoulder, John snagged a finger and wrenched the wrist it was connected to backwards.

There was a startled cry of pain and with a shove, John barreled on by. Right into Ziffka.

“Where ya going?”

“Outside.”

“Noooo,” the leader cooed. “It’s too dangerous to let you wander alone. Besides, don’cha want your winnings?”

It was too hot, too loud, and too crowded. “What?” 

But Ziffka was laden with necklaces of dangling stones, ropes looped over his shoulders and arms, dozens more hanging down his chest. “Your share, of course.” 

Stones rattled as Ziffka placed band after band around John’s heaving chest, then handed over a fresh pouch of orris needles which John accepted quietly. “Win the balick match and win the spoils. We must celebrate this great victory!”

Men jammed all around John, grabbing and pushing. He was swept outside into pouring sunlight, and he reached for the goggles he’d forgotten were still around his neck. Sweat rolled down his face, evaporating in seconds, and he dug the heels of his boots into the bedrock. 

“Stop resisting,” Ziffka said. “You will not ruin our plans.”

“What plans?” John was one against dozens, but logic and sanity had no place here.

He reached for his blade that was missing, cheeks burning hot.

“You forget something?” Malvick appeared from out of nowhere, holding out the knife, those surrounding them backing off. John snatched it, inspecting the length for damage. Malvick drawled, “I’m insulted. Such a prize should be handled with care. The balance is perfect for such a short edge.”

Tucking the weapon under his belt, John matched the appraisal he received. If anything, at least the bogeyman scared off those clinging to him. 

“You are an interesting one.” 

“I try,” John shot back.

“Everyone is afraid of me, you know, but you‘re not. Why?”

“I’m not everyone.”

“We’ll see.”

John’s cocky smile faded with his adrenaline crash. He was sick of the invisible target on his back. “Don’t you have the Void to haunt?”

“It was haunted before I ever got there.” Malvick pulled up his hood and took a long swig of water from the pouch hooked to his belt. “You might want to hide that limp of yours. Such things attract attention.”

Words breached his protective bubble, bringing reality crashing in on him. John braced for the delayed reaction, places where fists pounded or the ground punished his body. Grimacing, he turned around, aware of dozens of goggles watching in the distance, and began to follow the local legend home. 

With every step, new aches and pains assailed him. His knee hated bending, but John pushed on. If he kept within close proximity of the most feared man on Medena, he might live long enough to make use of the amount of water that swayed from the coarse twined ropes around his neck.

* * *

The flesh across his knuckles was split and broken, the middle two fingers of his right hand puffy and swollen. Flexing them, John took his newly purchased piece of fabric, a quilt of mustards and browns stitched together, and folded the cottony material in half.

Ronon lowered himself to the ground across from him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” John said absently.

“Whatcha making?”

“A keffiyeh.” 

Ronon stared at him; he did that a lot lately. 

“Keeps the sunlight off your head and face. A Taliban informant taught me how to fold one. Got you one too.” He gestured at a pile of fabric next to him.

John placed the cloth on top his head like a towel, allowing both ends to hang down his shoulders. He pinched the fabric over his left ear, wrapped the length across his nose and mouth like a bandit, then pulled the wrap of material behind his head, tucking it on itself. With the piece from the other side, he repeated the process, pinching the fabric by his right ear, going the opposite way under his chin and tucking it in behind his head. 

The cave was twenty degrees cooler, but it was still like being trapped inside a car with all the windows rolled up during a heat wave. He’d try any trick to keep comfortable, but Ronon was wearing the same odd look. “Something wrong?” he asked, pulling the fabric away from his face.

“No.”

“You already finish burying the water?”

“Yeah.”

“Told you I’d help.”

“Said I’d do it.”

“No. _You wouldn’t let me_ ,” John snapped, finally glancing up to look him in the eye.

Ronon pointed at John’s leg stretched out in front of him. “You need to stay off your knee.”

“The last I checked, your leg was broken.”

“And you have to go out tomorrow for another match.”

“Actually, I’m going out today.”

“Why?”

“Supplies.”

“I just stored twenty gallons of water.”

John stared at his bruised hands; eyes roamed the busted veins beneath the skin. “Won more than that.” There were only so many trips back and forth from the depository he could make. “We need stuff here, where it’s safe. Cut the Shan'ka out of the equation. It won’t evaporate stored underground and containers here are harder to steal than a necklace.”

“Said I agreed earlier.”

Rubbing at the back of his neck, John grunted, “I remember. Look I’m going to get you material for a robe. You’ll be walking around soon and need proper protection.”

“I know what you’re doing. Gathering reserves. You stockpiled enough dried roots for weeks and plants to start a garden.”

“Growing food means less to scour for. And I bought seeds for sherbus plants. It takes dozens to harvest thread, but these produce an orange color. Maybe you could figure out how to spin enough to trade for--”

“Sheppard.”

“Don’t,” John growled. 

He wasn’t thinking about it, no matter how many times Ronon tried to bring it up. There was no need to discuss how he broke his opponents and how the throngs cheered him on. Or how the whole time he stood outside himself, watching an animal masquerading as a human decimate another. 

Three matches down and two to go. And he was getting so damn tired.

His knee throbbed when he stood; his hand and ribs and back and anything that flexed or moved, ached along with it. Ronon was speaking, pinning John with accusations and expressions of displeasure. 

John slipped on his goggles, adjusting layers of his keffiyeh around his face. “I’ll be back soon.” And left without hearing the reply.

* * *

His newest garb itched, six patches of fabrics held together by hundreds of uneven stitches, the rest of his clothes a stinking pile in the back of the cave. He’d planned on salvaging them, rubbing the grit and sweat away, and turning the fabric into a thin bedroll. If he didn’t make it back this time, Ronon could make a go of it alone, use all the tools and resources without having to share them and find a way home.

He’d accepted all his dirty deeds, an idea that had once plagued him, had scratched the inside of his brain while he lay awake below a ceiling of rock. If he slipped up and the images came back to haunt him, they all went away with a few chewy needles and the dreamless sleep they induced. 

Crossing the desert didn’t bother him anymore either, neither did the thug squad that escorted him to Medena’s nasty underground game. Standing in the middle of the ring, he became a wall of stone, the name of his opponent bouncing uselessly off him. He’d learned a powerful lesson from his first fight and pulled his robe off, leaving him bare-chested, and gave it to Ziffka. John wore pants to these fights, his knife hanging in a handmade sheath that Ronon had sewn together from dried out fernandi skins. More roars than jeers greeted his introduction and he handed over his blade to Malvick out of habit.

Fighter number four was all muscle and bone, lean and agile like himself. Images of John’s doppelganger flashed through his head as they circled one another. The cave was hotter than before, more people crammed inside the space, sending vibrations throughout the room.

The Spraza was all flash and no bite, his skinny neck easy to throttle from behind. Fingernails raked over John’s arms as legs twitched and convulsed, eyes bugging out from a blue face. 

John wasn’t sure how long he’d held the man’s throat between his arm muscles, until Malvick shouted, “Victor!” and raised John’s arm again, the body slumping to the floor. 

Jad bustled about him, smoking and drinking fermented romari wine, spilling the quaff all over him when a stampede of onlookers swarmed over. People wanted to touch John; others were ready to take a swing at him. It was a soccer thrum, cascades of men dog-piling the ring, shuffling and pushing.

“Calm my friends, calm!” Ziffka shouted over them. “For those celebrating the Jad fortune, all shall enjoy orris at half price!”

“Freza! You lower the price today and double it tomorrow!” Kadar stormed over, shoving others aside, a dozen more Spraza behind him. 

“Kadar, you look thirsty. Where’s all your water?” Ziffka cackled. “Oh, yeah. You lost it all.”

“This man isn’t even part of the Jad!” Rull stepped out from behind his boss. “By what right do you receive the spoils, Ziffka?” 

“I merely hold my friend’s winnings,” Ziffka crooned with a squeeze to John’s arm. “As you can see by his new robe,” he said, returning the clothing to John, “he is well compensated. Look at him? Does he appear weak? No, he’ll be the first to win all five balick matches in over six hundred cycles.”

The crowds stomped their feet in approval. Ziffka fingered the dozens of necklaces around his neck, kissing one of the suma stones. “Besides, nothing says I can’t bet on any fighter. It’s not my fault that the stranger here has beaten all your men.” Rull bristled and Ziffka upped the ante. “The Spraza ranks are weak; you are not as powerful as you used to be.”

“The Spraza will crush you like ants. What’s orris if you don’t have enough food to eat? Your bodies will blow away with the dust storms,” Rull snarled, stepping forward.

“This is just the beginning. Without topra, jumping prisoners isn’t easy. Your numbers are frail.” Ziffka scanned those mumbling in agreement and lifted his chin. “All your best fighters have gone down. Who do you have left?”

“Me,” Kadar said, standing tall. “No thief steals from our lands. This stranger owes me his life’s water and I’ll spill it all over the ring.”

Ziffka was struck speechless, his face a flip-screen of emotion, ending with a slight uptick of his lips. The crowds had hushed upon the announcement; the Spraza rallied around their leader, heckling the Jad and taunting them with rude hand gestures. Rull stood back from the pack, his face an unreadable slate, eyes flicking about all the players, and landing on John’s in a gaze of pure fire.

Amazement boiled into a new frenzy of rumor and anticipation. Bets already started among the various groups; men elbowed their way over to inspect both fighters’ physicality. Beyond the gawking and power plays, John stood there, impervious to all the extra attention, pulling his garb over his head, ignoring the protests. 

“What are you doing?” Ziffka hissed in his ear.

“Leaving.” 

“You’re not just walking away.”

“Actually, that’s exactly what I’m doing,” John challenged with a calm smile, the one that pissed people off.

“You tok. Your final match is against the leader of the Spraza. Do you know what that means?’

“It means you’re gonna get out of my way.” 

Ziffka stepped aside, his errand boy, Pullo, instantly behind John as he started for the exit. As much as both leaders probably wanted to hang him by the balls, this would be the only time where he felt safe going home. Killing him was bound to trigger an all-out war, so he exercised what little control he had left by giving the asshole who dragged him into this a symbolic middle finger. 

Malvick hung out in the tunnel, absently whistling a tune. At John’s approach, he pulled out Ronon’s blade and handed it over. “You don’t seem too concerned about your upcoming match.”

“Should I?”

Malvick got into John’s face, slowly, methodically, practically breathing his air. “The man’s a cold-blooded killer. Are you?” He took a long sniff around John‘s face, pressing a finger to John‘s lips, silencing his reply. “That‘s for you to figure out.” 

Mind whirling, John sparred back. “Why do you care? Everyone’s got an angle; what’s yours?”

“Who says I have one? Maybe I’m just fulfilling a needed role.”

John pulled out the cloth folded under his arm and wrapped the keffiyeh around his head. “At least you know what yours is.” 

“Sometimes we’re not meant to understand our place,” was Malvick’s reply.

* * *

Ronon hobbled outside on crutches he had fashioned out of the poles, crude armrests painfully digging under his armpits. Sheppard had bought him the second one yesterday, along with a new loose-fitting robe that allowed air to billow between cloth and skin. 

The prison transport had arrived a while ago and Sheppard wanted to use the diversion to go into town without attracting unwanted attention. While he collected his surplus of water from the matches, Ronon was going to do something more useful than basic physical activity. 

Searching for an area suitable for growing anything in this arid climate was an exercise in patience. Fertile soil was nonexistent; sand lacked nutrients or water for growing. Yet flowers bloomed out there from reedy plants, providing fabric, dye and food. All deserts produced some rain, not in gigantic storms, but in squeezed-out bits of moisture. 

Ronon pushed down his goggles, peering at gray patches over the untouchable mountains. Clouds were puffy forms of water, and if there was a place to harbor life, it was beneath those dark skies and no amount of rock would prevent him from getting there.

Right now, he scouted a place for seeds. Sheppard was right about the need to cultivate their own resources, but wrong in other ways. Ronon’s leg would be fully healed by the time they grew anything and ready to cross into the Void, possibly to seek a way home.

Atlantis.

Sheppard hadn’t mentioned the city in days, maybe a week. No matter how dire the situation had ever been, how ridiculous the chance of surviving a battle, his CO had never doubted returning home. Never stopped strategizing a way to make it back, be it stuck underground or below water, hive ship or energy field. There had always been a plan. 

Except recently.

“You a farmer now?”

The scent of metal and musk told him Malvick had been hovering nearby. Ronon leaned lightly enough against the sandstone so it wouldn’t burn through his clothes. “I’m what I have to be.”

“Basic tenet of survival. Man after my own heart.” Malvick didn’t move like most people, his steps reminding Ronon of a spirit animal. He was next to him in seconds, the air moving with him. “Always do what’s needed. Never second guess yourself.”

Ronon nodded at a footpath leading into the darkness. “Must be boring living up there.”

Humming to himself, Malvick perched on a ledge of slate. “I enjoy solitude.”

“So, that’s a no?”

“You gettin’ around on those things?”

Scoring a point, Ronon didn’t answer, crutching away to test a theory. Sure enough, the most feared man of Medena shadowed him under a large outcropping. It was one of the few places protected by shadow where he could stay outside and breathe in fresh air for more than a few minutes. “Why do you oversee the balick matches?”

“Because I can’t fight in ‘em.”

“Why not?”

“Used to a long time ago. Got bored.”

“Why not take over one of the gangs? Rule over all the weak?”

“I don’t herd animals.” 

Ronon wasn’t a talker; if there were vital questions, he had ways of getting intel out of people. But forging relationships seemed to be the most direct route to gathering information, a first in his book.

“Your friend. Think he can beat Kadar?”

“You’ve seen him in the ring. What do you think?” Ronon fired back. He couldn’t remember Kadar, but Sheppard was a fighter under layers of false softness. It was surviving the aftermath that scared him.

“What will you do if he wins?”

“The same as we always do.”

“And what would--” Malvick’s head snapped around, muscles coiled, hand on the hilt of his blade. 

Ronon tensed, senses straining to pick up what had his companion amped up. Squinting against the sunlight reflecting off endless sand, he listened to a rumbling echo as the prison ship took off. This was the first time he’d been outside when the transport flew by, its flight path over the mountain range.

“Does it always fly so low?” he wondered out loud, mind racing about positions on top of the mountain and the proximity to the ground.

“Why? You gonna hitch a ride somehow?”

“Maybe. Depending on how close it gets.” Ronon studied the vessel, wondering why it wasn’t higher in the sky. “You ever try?”

“Try what?”

Malvick stared at him like he was crazy and maybe Ronon was. There were no jumpers or weapons to take it down. But it was the only possible ticket available off this rock. “To see if you could get on board.”

“You’ve been a passenger; they kick out the prisoners without landing. They stay too high for rope or chain, for leaping off the perfect ledge.”

“Then you’ve tried.”

“I’ve done every single thing in my power to escape this pit. There are only so many failures before you give up. Accept what you are.” 

Ronon believed Malvick’s past actions, but not his words. Not the way dark goggles fixated on the ship’s trajectory over the Void. Ronon counted the seconds, calculating how long it remained in a low orbit, eyes narrowing when the whir of engines didn’t fade.

Eyes attuned to Malvick’s facial expressions, the two of them studied the same things. Ronon’s ears didn’t deceive him and he balled up his fists, wishing for a weapon. “It’s still at a low altitude.”

“It does that sometimes.”

“Why? What’s it doing in the Void?”

“I don’t think you want to know.”

His crutches fell to the ground and Ronon stood on both legs, suppressing the urge to holler in pain, crossing the small distance between them. “Don’t tell me what I want to know. Don’t act like you know me.”

“You’re so damn curious about the Void?” Malvick took both of Ronon’s shoulders in his massive hands. “Heal up. Make sure your pal wins the match and stays alive. And I’ll show ya.”

Ronon saw himself in the man daring him. All power and strength. Confidence and gall. Thriving on control with nothing to show for it. “If you’re so interested, you could do something about that.”

Malvick laughed, kicking up dust as he left. “Maybe I have already.”

* * *

They didn’t train much today, not after Sheppard’s trek to bring back food and water, and the last match looming tomorrow. Ronon’s fingers were raw from planting seeds, but that didn’t stop him building a frame to weave fabric out of leftover pieces from his crutches. 

“They really charge four dunkas for clothes?” Ronon inquired, mind fascinated by what lay outside his current walls.

“Yeah, guess because it exchanges so many hands. The Jad control the fields for those plants, or if you grow your own, like nine out of every ten die. Then you have the guy who turns the threads into cloth and one more person if they don’t know how to sew,” Sheppard said, sipping from a pouch.

After today’s exchange at the depository, they had twenty-five gallons of water secured in the cave and enough material for Ronon to make them shorts for wearing inside. If he had any fabric left over, he’d create simple cloth for trade. If Sheppard skipped the water tanker before and after the final balick match for safety, they had about a month‘s worth of rationed water. Factor in what they needed to barter for food and basic needs, and that gave them a little over two weeks of supplies. 

Dinner was juicy insects the size of lobsters, a rare find discovered by those searching for food during the recent trade wars between the gangs. Sheppard had cooked it in a tiny fire pit doused with burning oil outside, layering the meat on a bed of dried leaves. “This is good,” Ronon said, trying not to dampen the mood. At least for the next ten minutes.

“I want to leave the knife with you,” Sheppard said.

There went sharing a meal in peace.

“Beating Kadar’s gonna cause havoc. You’ll need it for defense,” Ronon countered.

Sheppard had bought the smelly burning oil the other day, the fumes like hazy days getting drunk off Satedan ale. He swore his CO burned it on purpose to relax him into submission. “If you don’t take it’ll, I’ll follow you.” At Sheppard’s irritated expression, Ronon added, “And you know I will.”

Two, three weeks at most, and he’d be able to walk some.

“You add everything to the map? Names of the people I barter with? What they look like?”

Sheppard wasn’t as clever as he thought. “Yep, and you’ll introduce me soon enough.”

Ronon mulled over the conversation with Malvick, about how the prison transport went over the Void. For whatever reason he didn’t know, but now wasn‘t the time to bring that up. 

When focused on a fight, there was nothing else. 

“Aren’t you going to eat that?” Ronon pointed at the remains of Sheppard’s dinner.

“I finished most of it; you can have the rest.”

They had two meals a day. Roots and something else, fruit or leafy things, when they woke up, and dried fernandi or a variety of large insects for dinner. “You’re not hungry? After walking all day and back?” Ronon always wanted to eat.

“Guess I don’t have much of an appetite with tomorrow,” Sheppard admitted, staring at his empty dunka pouch. 

“Your biggest meal should be the night before a battle,” Ronon insisted.

“I think sleeping a lot is the most important thing.” With a long stretch, Sheppard picked up his dunka container again and stared at it as if he’d forgotten it was empty.

Ronon’s had a quarter left and the lobster-insect thing _was_ really juicy. “Here, have some of mine.” 

There wasn’t any hesitation; a slow swallow or two, then Sheppard wiped at his mouth as if embarrassed at being thirsty. They still only consumed two dunkas a day, Sheppard three when he went out to make up for the loss of fluids. It was a fraction of what they should take in, but they sipped their rations all day instead of drinking at fixed intervals which helped. 

“Is this planet like the place you went to war at?” 

Sheppard ran his fingers through his scruffy hair. “What?”

“Aff’ganistan. Said you served there. I’ve heard some of the Marines tell stories. It sounds kind of like here.” Ronon didn’t know why he broached the subject now of all times. Soldiers didn’t talk about such things, but it was that or silence. He’d given up on small talk long ago.

“It could be, with a sun that actually set at the end of the day.”

“You flew ships?”

“Yeah, helicopters. Mainly Cobras and Apaches, depending.” Sheppard’s eyes strayed in thought. “This cave,” he drew a circle over his head, “reminds me of _Dai Chopan_ , the home base the bad guys operated outside Kandahar. The Taliban would come out of the mountains to bomb supply routes or launch rocket attacks. Then retreat in small groups to ambush our ground forces. My job was to bomb the hell out of targets or provide air support during missions.” He looked up. “The Taliban loved using old Russian rockets against us.”

“Terrain always has an advantage over machines,” Ronon agreed.

Sheppard laughed mirthlessly. “And those damned caves…they ran so deep that no matter how hard I hit them, they just sat it out. Didn’t help that the enemy and civilians blended together. Or all the drug lords funded the bad guys and the government we were protecting.”

Shrugging, he scratched at his beard. “For a while I dropped off ghost teams to root the enemy out. You’d love them; they could go anywhere, pull off any mission and disappear.” 

He trailed off, lost in memories, his voice returning thick and heavy. “Did that for like two months straight. Then one day, this massive suicide bomb blew up a village square. Killed over a hundred people. Women, children. I had to fly medivac back and forth to carry all the wounded because there weren't enough teams..”

Rubbing absently at his scraped knuckles John‘s voice went rough. “Never did that before. Did special operations, gathered intel, but that…I…I’d never been so glad for my chopper's loud as hell blades and headphones that blocked out all the cries of the wounded.”

Ronon sat there, the only noise their breathing. He thought Sheppard was done, but his friend kept talking, as if to himself. “Kind of had a hard time after that.”

Now Ronon knew Sheppard had forgotten he was there with him and wondered if this was the first time John had ever acknowledged that he’d been affected by the incident. “Then what did you do?”

Sheppard looked up, his expression stone. “Whatever was asked if it got the bad guys. For a few months I was doing things that if I’d been caught, my government would’ve denied.” 

That wasn’t what Ronon meant. “I used to slaughter animals with my bare hands.” He curled his fingers into fists. “Ripped ‘em apart I was so hungry. Stole from farmers. Robbed those I thought had enough to eat.” He sent a daggered stare at Sheppard. “And you wouldn’t believe how many ways there are to kill a Wraith.” If he closed his eyes, Ronon imagined the blood, hot and flush on his hands, heart beating in excitement. 

He must have zoned out for a while because the next he realized Sheppard had blown out the light and started going deeper in the cave where he slept most of the time recently. 

“We’re going to leave this place. It‘s gonna take time,” Ronon declared.

“ _Time_. I’ll see about buying some more,” Sheppard replied, crawling away.

* * *

The whole freaking planet had to be jammed inside the cave with nowhere to breathe or walk. It was Vegas fight night meets Ancient Rome, the wretched and wealthy smoking it up and letting all bets roll. He didn’t know what was worse, the odor of dirty gym socks or those who’d crashed into the perfume counter at Macy’s. His Jad escort led him to the ring, Ziffka making a hasty, silent exit. Out of the corner of John’s eye was a flash of solid blue against the backdrop of oranges and brown. Misha had joined the party.

John smelled and sweated like a stuck pig, eyes roaming around the circus freaks nervously. The Spraza outnumbered the Jad by a lot. Peachy. 

Speaking of, more clown cars had arrived; the parade squeezed their way through the ruckus of a deafening roar. Kadar’s robe was more like a poncho of fabric and he untied the string around his neck, allowing it to fall to the floor. After a glare, his second in command, Rull, scooped it up, and joined the others flanking their leader. The ring felt smaller, the room unable to contain the sheer numbers encroaching on the space. 

Malvick made his way over, shoving aside those who were too slow without a second thought. Stepping into the center, arms of solid muscle spread out before his audience, he tapered the noise down with a gesture of his hands. Once the room was muted, he paused, ratcheting up the attention; that was until Kadar stole his thunder.

“Before you begin the match, I invoke the right of _halmatak._ ” 

Spraza erupted, chanting their leader’s name. The merchants swarmed Lyle, whose face grinned ear to ear with the flurry of new bets. John glanced at Ziffka for explanation, but the Jad was too busy frantically conversing with his goons in his usual display of emotion.

“Kadar.” Malvick’s voice boomed over the cacophony of sound. “My main man,” he purred, clapping the Spraza on the shoulder hard enough to cause him to stumble. “Don’t ever upstage me,” he hissed, then smiled to the crowd. “There are no rules in balick matches, but one. No weapons.” Letting that last word resonate with the masses, he allowed the excitement to boil, then boosted the tempo again with mastery. “Except on the final match.” 

Kadar pulled out his blade of bone, holding it expertly between his fingers. John didn’t give an inch, pulling his robe over his head, searching for someone to hand it over to. Ziffka took the cloth, whispering in his ear, “We’ll find your friend, if ya lose. Got it?”

John turned his back on him, facing his current target, eyes only on Kadar’s knife hand. There was no crowd, no noise, no Malvick. 

Just the command starting the match.

“ _Alma!_ ”

Kadar went on the attack and John rocketed backwards to avoid a quick strike towards his chest and pivoted from the underhanded backslash. John countered, going for Kadar’s exposed shoulder, missing by inches.

Circling the ring of bodies behind them, both men took seconds to study the other, breathing noisily through their mouths. Salt stung John’s eyes, trails of sweat poured down his face and heaving chest. 

Go on the offensive, or die by the clock. Knife fights were not his strong suit.

Kadar feigned for John’s stomach and he dodged, slicing at his opponent’s wrist and getting air. His opponent lashed out with a foot, going for John’s knee, but he skipped out of the way. There was shouting, he thought; a drum of energy pounded inside his ears. He lunged for Kadar’s abdomen, who edged away and tried to slice open John’s forearm.

“You won’t leave here alive,” Kadar panted.

“Kinda knew that,” John said in all honesty.

Kadar snarled, going with a frenzy of crisscrossing arcs toward John’s throat, leaving his right side vulnerable. John danced out of the way and parried, metal painting a red line down Kadar’s ribcage. Shuffling back, John sliced sideways at Kadar’s chest and missed wide. Kadar found an opening, and smashed a fist into John’s face, followed by a blade to his left bicep. 

The knife went deep, sending cast-off over the crowd. John ignored the fire of ripped muscle, his blood hot down his skin as it dripped to the dusty ground. Kadar rushed forward and John grabbed his knife-wielding hand by the wrist, stuck a foot out, and used his opponent’s forward momentum to toss him to ground. 

Earsplitting shouts collided with ocean waves of sound and he shook his head to clear it. Blood welled out of his arm while Kadar rebounded to his feet. John squinted at the two images of his foe. “What the hell?” 

Kadar pounced, going for the kill again, driving his weapon toward John’s heart like a dagger. John barely jumped out of the way and Kadar went low, slashing sideways, the tip of his blade contacting at John’s hipbone above his pants. Hissing, John nearly tripped over his two feet in a stumble, the room wavering.

“Whatcha do to me?” he slurred.

There was a blur of motion, followed by a knife handle to his jaw. Pain exploded in his head and face, knocking John flat on his back, his weapon clattering to the floor. 

Stunned, his body sluggish to commands, he lay there before pressure pinned his legs in place. Kadar straddled him, leering with a manic smile. The bastard must’ve laced his knife with something and laid John out before he showed any noticeable signs of poisoning.

“I told you, I’d have my revenge,” Kadar taunted. 

His mouth didn’t form words and John struggled to regain feeling in his extremities. The Spraza used topra which had short-term effects. _Stall for time. Do anything!_ John managed a weak smile, wetting his lips enough to spit in the face looming above him. 

Kadar ran his tongue around his mouth and swallowed the drops. John tried curling his fingers into a semblance of a fist with no success. Kadar was preoccupied with pumping up the crowds, their yelling and screaming reverberating out of mono speakers. It took all his focus to follow Kadar’s movements, the Spraza waving his hands about before grabbing John by the hair.

This was the death knell and strangely, John didn’t care all that much.

_We’ll find your friend, if ya lose._

Then he remembered Ronon and his self preservation fought against indifference. His fingers tingled, but wouldn’t respond and Kadar yanked John’s head to one side, exposing his jugular. 

Knife poised, his enemy paused, another blurry form obscuring John’s vision, but not his hearing.

“Our caves have been raided, sir. All our food and water are gone!” 

“What! How?”

“The guards were overcome. Everyone was at the match. They took our stones. Even the containers. We…”

Kadar shoved the person out of the way and glared down at John. “You! You’re behind this! You and the Jad tok!”

John focused on his fingertips, on muscle commands and joints.

“Admit it!” Kadar demanded and backhanded him.

His whole head snapped from the blow and John tasted blood. 

“This was a conspiracy to steal from us!”

_Smack._

John’s fingers twitched, his wound pulsating in tune to his heart.

“You will announce your guilt before you die!”

_Smack._

John couldn‘t feel his face, only focused on his fingers, how they prickled, and how his ravaged bicep rippled pain down the rest of arm. 

_Seize it._

“Wow.” John forced his mouth around words. “You are…dumb.”

Seething, Kadar grabbed John’s arm, squeezing the wound, blood spilling between his fingers. John _felt that_ , a fresh blossom of pain that stole his breath.

But he moved his hand.

“Enough of this,” Kadar sneered, letting go and gripping his knife in fervor. “I only wish I could’ve prolonged your suffering.”

Raising the blade above John’s chest, he arched his hands higher for the blow, leaving his face exposed. 

_I’ll show you the dirtiest moves I know._

John had only one shot and his hand lashed out, gouging Kadar’s right eye, pushing it back into his skull with his thumb. 

The scream was blood-curdling and Kadar fell back, clutching at his head, writhing on the floor. John rolled to his side, unable to sit up. His hand slipped in a small pool of blood and his addled brain realized it was his.

Chaos reigned around him, members of the Jad and Spraza squaring off like two packs of rabid dogs. People yelled; others scrambled to collect their bets. Kadar continued his throat-ripping screams, his crew too stunned to do anything but watch. 

Strong hands grabbed John by the shoulders and jerked him to his feet. He turned unsteadily to punch whoever was there, nearly falling back down. 

“Stop wastin’ time. Things are bound to get real ugly,” Malvick said, holding John up.

Rull emerged from the crowd as his boss howled. “You have failed us, Kadar. You are unfit to lead.” And with that, he yanked the shrieking man by the hair, sliced his leader’s throat from behind. “Kadar was of unable body, maimed by the Jad puppet!” 

“Uh-oh,” Malvick whispered in John’s ear.

“Our territory has been attacked by the Jad! We will not let this stand,” Rull proclaimed. 

Ziffka was cool and calm, grinning at the anarchy as his rival continued to rant. John couldn‘t demand answers, his words stuck on a fat thick tongue. 

As if sensing his rage, Ziffka smiled smugly. “We needed you to divert their zeal while we put our plans in motions. The matches served as a distraction and gathered all the Spraza in one place to complete the raids. But this?” he waved at his rival’s coup. “This was a bonus.”

John tried to move out of Malvick‘s hold, but his head spun.

“All Jad and those aligned with them are our sworn enemy,” Rull bellowed. “All trade is over. All agreements between us broken.” Spraza outnumbered Jad in the room and they began brandishing weapons and picking up stones. “We will not wait for vengeance.”

Misha came out of the crowd, halting the pending rout, and dumped a tarp to the ground. “You will collect this body properly.” He pinned those slow to his command with a glare of pale blue eyes, and the Spraza rolled Kadar up in haste. “The Shan’ka will not meddle with strife between groups, but they will not tolerate any breach of law.”

John sagged in Malvick’s hold, blood staining his pants and the floor under his boots.

“You okay there, friend?” Ziffka inquired in mock concern. “Can you stand?” 

“We’re going to take a walk, right?” Malvick gave John a shake, bracing him with one arm, the other tracing the tangle of necklaces around Ziffka’s chest. “I think most of these belong to the winner, wouldn’t you say?” and ripped a handful away. 

Speechless and fuzzy, John was manhandled into the tunnel leading outside. People milled about, drinking and smoking. “Keep going,” Malvick snapped anytime John wavered.

Stumbling from a simmering crock pot to a sizzling oven leached away the last of John’s adrenaline. 

“Be useful,” Malvick ordered, handing him his goggles.

It took three tries to put them on, John’s brain in slow motion.

“Figured you were doused with somethin’. It should be wearing off soon.”

John sent him a seething look that‘d boil water.

“Did you forget? There were no rules.”

John took a wild swing and his arm was quickly pulled behind his back and he was shoved against a wall, sandstone searing his bare skin. 

“Stop wastin’ energy!” Malvick snarled. 

There was ripping of fabric and John felt cloth wrapped roughly around his arm several times and tied in place. 

“Cover up.”

Malvick handed John his robe and he pulled it over his head, the sensation of ants giving way to the pounding in his bicep and jaw. Things were happening too fast, too out of control. 

“Hold this.” 

Something small and metal was pushed into his hand. “What?” John muttered dumbfounded, a tingle itching across his palm and down his arm. 

Whatever it was glowed a soft purple before Malvick retrieved it with the utmost care, the glow diminishing to nothing in his massive hands. He wrapped the object in a cloth sodden with John’s blood; the cylindrical thing perked up then went dead. “Doesn’t matter if it’s fresh,” he mumbled, then eyed John. “Come on, let‘s go,” Malvick commanded, handing over John’s knife to get him moving.

There was no telling up from down, friend from foe, used-up thug or beaten-down ploy. John was dragged across the desert, phantoms chasing after him. His arm and jaw throbbed, and everything was a muted blur as his blood pumped out the toxins.

“Hold on, got company.”

Company? But John was on the ground, half a dozen figures emerging from nowhere.

“We want no trouble, just the Jad spy.”

“Sorry, but I love trouble.”

Maybe it was blood loss, or the poison, or John’s mind shutting down from sheer overload. But it was surreal watching a man effortlessly take down seven or eight men in seconds.

Then John was pulled to his feet, hands pushing him forward, a voice talking about new, exciting plans for him.

* * *

The grueling hike back was a marathon march through wind tunnels of sandpaper and sunspots. It was dodging Taliban forces through poppy fields and boiling inside his Apache, waiting two hours past the rendezvous to pick up a ghost unit, Captain Brody convincing him not to go out after them on foot and doing just that half an hour later. Beneath it all was a booming voice, like a steel whip to his back, beating him onward, John resisting and breaking from the physical blows.

Later, after the sand had stripped his skin and scoured the inside of his skull, a second voice guided him away from the whip bearer, and John was on his hands and knees inside the tent of a temporary mosque.

Opening his eyes, he recognized the blurry shape of Fariad Akram, tribal leader turned CIA informant who’d been aiding the hunt for the missing ghost unit. An elderly man with his hands tied behind his back knelt on a tattered red rug and prayed, heedless to the man screaming over him.

_Akram slapped the old man. “Last time. Tell me what I want to know!_

_“Al-hamdu lillahi rabbil ‘alamin.”_

_“Allah does not protect traitors.”_

_The old man bowed his head. “Hawla wa la quwwata illa billah.”_

_Akram pulled out his long kanjar knife and John reached for his .45. “Stop!” he ordered._

Then Kadar was there, circling him, fresh blood dripping down his knife, setting up for an attack.

John backed away, his blade shaking in his hand.

“Sheppard!”

The crowds chanted, _“Koshtan mekosham!”_

“John! You don‘t have to fight anymore.”

Blinking, Ronon stood before him, flames from an oil torch dancing across his dirt-streaked face. “You can stand down.”

Gnawing at his lip, swallowing salt and copper, John felt the cave wall dig into his vertebrae. He was in the rear of their shelter, away from voracious crowds and their puppet masters. And years gone by since _Dai Chopan_. 

“Funny, he was quiet most of the way here.”

Tightening his fingers around the handle, John turned toward Malvick, the other man’s face unreadable behind his goggles. “Leave.”

“What? You’re not inviting me to dinner?”

Ronon took John’s side, whispering, “What is it?”

Malvick wiped the dust off his domed head, pulling up his hood. “Today was a real eye opener, wouldn‘t you say? You got to see how power shifts in this place.”

The flames flickered and he was gone, leaving John searching the shadows, reality returning in Technicolor. “Make sure he’s gone.”

Sliding to the ground, he didn’t relinquish the weapon until Ronon was next to him, pulling it out of his fingers. 

“Want to tell me what that was about?”

“Help me get this robe off,” John replied, unable to control his trembling fingers.

Ronon pulled up the coarse fabric over John‘s head, revealing the sodden bandage and blood-streaked arm. He glanced down at the other cut, focusing on the serious one first. Layer by layer he removed the crude wrap, exposing a deep laceration four inches long. “Damn.”

Sparing a glance, John grit out, “Gonna need to sew it up.” 

“After we disinfect it.”

John closed his eyes, Ronon leaving and returning with a small pot, mixing just enough soap flakes and water to suds up a potent amount, laying down a cloth to catch any runoff. “This is gonna suck.”

“Just do it.”

The caustic liquid was poured into the wound and John flinched, gnashing his jaw as the wound seared and boiled, but somehow it didn’t hurt enough. 

“Gonna do it twice,” Ronon said, and gestured at the cut above John’s hip. “I’ll rinse that one after I sew up the arm. You can’t afford more blood loss.”

“Should have seen the other guy,” John joked, but his friend didn’t see the humor. 

“You’ve been hiding your knife skills from me.”

“It was dumb luck.” Shifting his weight jostled John’s injured arm and more blood bubbled up and spread down his skin. “Got plenty of hidden talents apparently.”

Ronon was there, then wasn’t, returning with a bone needle and thread. “See, now that’s a real talent.” John pointed at the basic tools. “You have a useful skill. I can’t draw a stick figure.”

“You’re in shock. Maybe you should--”

“Maybe I should shut up and do as I’m told?”

Ronon stared dumbfounded for a second then gripped John’s bicep tightly, turning the seeping injury over, the needle ripping a hole through abused flesh to pull through the first suture. 

It hurt like hell, the topra wearing off with every loop, but it wasn’t the mind-numbing, cleansing pain that John needed. What he wanted. 

He watched Ronon work on his arm, bit by bit, both flaps of skin sewn together in crisscrosses of thread soaked in soap flakes. The lone torch released a sweet odor of lavender and sage. His eyes drooped, his head floating away with the fumes.

_“I said stop! Estaada! ” John repeated in Dari._

_“This man knows information about the missing American soldiers.”_

_“Fine, then we’ll interrogate him.”_

_“We?”_

_The tent filled with five more Afghanis armed with Soviet weapons, all five barrels pointed in John’s direction._

_“Leave, Major. You’ve helped me find our common enemy.” Akram gripped his kanja. “This is our land, our law.”_

_John stared at the old man, at the five rifles in his direction. Two more Afghanis appeared and his feet backed away outside, survival instincts overriding the screaming in his head. Screaming that would plague him forever._

He jerked awake, breathing hard and stared at Ronon watching him out of the corner of his eyes. “How long…I mean…”

“You’ve been asleep for five minutes,” Ronon said, cutting the end of the thread. “Made it easier to finish.”

Running his other hand through his hair, John scratched at his scalp, trying to force certain memories back where they belonged, and glanced down at his friend’s handiwork. The stitches were nice and even, enough to make any physician envious. “That’s a lot.”

“Thirty or something.” Ronon picked up a dunka pouch. “You should drink a whole one to replace fluids.”

“We shouldn’t waste our--” John’s voice trailed off as Ronon glared at him. “You’re right,” he said, licking his lips. 

John picked up the cloth used to collect the soap suds residue and started tending to the less serious cut to his side, mind flashing to Kadar’s glee at putting it there.

And at Ziffka’s smug expression at the completion of John’s part in his little game.

“Sheppard, stop it!”

“What?” John demanded when Ronon’s hand gripped his. Glancing down, John noticed where he’d run his fingers over the gash and busted it open.

“Weren’t you the one who said not to have any open wounds?” Ronon accused, his voice angry, his eyes something else. 

“Yeah, sorry.” Exhaustion crashed down on him and John relinquished the task to his friend. But he’d be damned if he fell asleep again. Not when his control was slipping and not when things long since buried kept bubbling to the surface. He'd just have to find new ways to keep them hidden in that deep dark pit of his, but the battle was getting harder, the distractions fewer and fewer. And he was getting really fucking afraid of losing himself totally down that slippery black hole.

* * *

Stars and moons were objects adored by poets with beautiful words. Inspiring lovers, enticing explorers, and filling children with ideas and dreams. Ronon missed sleeping under them, wondering if one star, one cluster of light, burned brightly without the Wraith. Years spent hiding in caves, up trees, along beaches; there were always the stars to count on. 

He searched the gray patch above the mountains out of reach, squinting where bright white faded to muted gray, in awe at the line drawn in the sky. A crack of light, outlining a small moon, almost lost in the sky. It was a deception; he’d learned that years ago, how the environment protected itself with illusions of color and light. 

The ledge out here was his new sanctuary, where he studied both fronts of the battlefield. The air stirred around his face, a fierce wind blowing down from the mountain. His leg ached like a rotten tooth, the pain more pronounced today than ever, and he felt it, could smell it. In the air. Something was happening and he wanted to be prepared for the change. 

He also needed to get away, to give Sheppard space. There was no fever from the arm wound, but there was no pain medication either. Nothing for fifteen days of fighting for your life, of being battered and bruised and discarded. Constant pain was a maddening drain on the mind and body and this was the first time he worried about the toll. 

Despite exhaustion, Sheppard wasn’t sleeping, plagued by old or new ghosts. It made Ronon’s attempt at rest difficult out of concern for his friend and a habit of being instantly alert at the slightest noise. Atlantis had made him even more sensitive to his surroundings, from years of noise to complete stillness. Forcing his ears to strain beyond the silence. 

Maybe Sheppard would sleep, knowing no one else was around.

* * *

Ronon observed his friend lace up his boots in a few quick tugs. Sheppard was manic in his desire to head off to the water tanker, impatient to return to the fray, though it didn‘t mean he should. “Think you’re ready to go out there?” 

“We can’t afford for our supplies to ever get low. Got to keep ahead. I doubt anyone's going to hire me for a while,” Sheppard reasoned, stretching his back and legs, wincing when he hit a sore spot. 

“We have no idea what’s going on. The Spraza might seek revenge.”

“I’ll keep away from them like I always do.”

Ronon didn’t buy that for a second. “Maybe they’ll be looking for you.”

“Or maybe they’ll be too busy with their war.”

Sheppard folded cloth around his head, concealing the bruising about his face, but not his sunken eyes. Ronon picked up one of the carrying containers, handed it over, and slapped his hand right over John’s injured arm when he let his guard down.

Dropping the container, Sheppard grabbed at his bicep with a strangled curse. It was a cruel, necessary thing to do. “They know where to attack you. Those crowds aren’t on your side anymore.”

“They never were.” Sheppard held his arm close to his chest, breathing heavy. “If there’s a war going on now, water’s going to be at the heart of it. I won’t let things deteriorate again.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Yeah, what else would it be?”

Ronon could lie, too. “Nothing.”

Arguing with Sheppard was like wrestling a giant opatoop;that was until Ronon was in the position to win the quarrel. That was going to be soon, sooner than his CO ever expected and then there would be no argument.

* * *

Ronon followed a semi-even path outside the cave, up and around one side where the incline went too steep, and back again. If he’d been on Atlantis, he would have been walking with crutches weeks ago, but the time spent suffering and recovering from the heat rash had given his leg time to mend. Each day spent strengthening his upper body had been extra time off a limb that didn’t have a cast to aid in healing. 

He’d broken bones without proper medicine before, knew how far to push and when to relent. It might not have knitted a hundred percent properly, but he didn’t have time to worry over such things.

The water tanker never arrived, and hours later, Sheppard returned more haggard than when he’d left. They still had the five suma stones from the final match in addition to their current supplies, and things could be worse, but it’d cast a shadow over the next three days, not knowing how long it'd be before the water tanker finally showed up. 

“What was it like out there?”

“Hard to tell. I hung back half a klick observing. Figured I’d wait for either the fighting to break out or for the transport to enter low orbit and then look for the clearest path away from all the unfriendlies. Of course, it never showed. ” An unhealthy pink flush covered Sheppard’s face and neck from being outside for hours and he removed his robe one handed, his left arm held tightly against his side. “I kept my position concealed, so I didn’t gather any intel from talking to people, but when the masses broke up, there weren’t any skirmishes. There were fewer numbers around. I‘m thinking one side stayed home.”

Ronon was hot and sticky from crutching around outside and filled his water pouch to rinse his mouth at least. He poured Sheppard’s ration as well and dragged himself back to give it to him, finding his friend had already curled on his side asleep. Maybe they’d both get four or five hours in a row this time. 

But just as he’d done in the three days since the matches, Sheppard woke up after just a few hours, doing exercises that didn’t involve his arm, or some math puzzle he’d begun drawing on the wall until he’d finally succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep. Ronon only need a little more time to heal. He would wait Sheppard out a little longer before presenting him a plan that he’d been brewing. One that couldn’t be argued with.

* * *

Three days came and went without new water and three days after that. Not knowing what was going on with the Saurin supply line, they went on a recon trip around their shelter for possible solutions to the impending water shortage. Sheppard wanted to scout for cacti living under the shade of the mountain. Ronon was eager to explore further than he’d gone before, now that his CO could aid him over the more treacherous obstacles. 

“Why didn‘t you bring both poles?” 

Ronon leaned on a single crutch, distributing more weight to his injured leg, testing its limits. “Don’t need two.”

“Still say I should search for food on my own or figure out something for trade.”

“It’s not worth the risk.”

“Think people might be too busy with other things to care about me.”

Ronon crossed his arms across his chest. “We don’t know what’s going on out there.”

Sheppard gave him a lopsided grin. “My point exactly. Can’t keep operating in the dark.”

The silence hung thickly, the wind coming off the mountains in gusts. Ronon opened his mouth, allowed the air to sweep over his tongue, tasted the tang of metal. Pulling off his goggles, he faced the foothill and searched the sky.

“What is it?” Sheppard asked, matching Ronon’s study high above.

“Don’t know. Does it seem…darker?”

“Maybe, hard to tell.” Sheppard perched his goggles onto his forehead. “You smell that?”

“Wind’s carrying the scent from the Void. Same odor I detect on Malvick‘s clothes.”

“But there’s something else…it’s….

“Rain,” Ronon breathed. 

A fine sheen of water droplets blew down across his cheeks and he opened his mouth, capturing the precious moisture. “Is this real?”

“I don’t care,” John breathed next to him, removing the cloth around his head. “God, this is… It’s amazing.”

Serenity was the drizzle beading on Ronon’s forehead, filling the creases of his eyes, dripping between the cracks of his lips. 

“Ronon.”

He could stand here for days.

“Ronon!”

“What?”

“The rain. We have to collect it!”

Sheppard scrambled down the trail to their shelter and Ronon pulled off his robe, allowing the moisture to soak inside the fabric to be squeezed out later. He dropped his crutch, limping down to meet Sheppard halfway, grabbing both containers while Sheppard went back to gather more. Ronon hobbled to the nearest rocky outcropping, holding open the jug at the foot to gather the runoff. Sheppard was back with all their small pouches and the cooking pot, finding other low-hanging cliffs. 

“Never thought it’d ever rain,” Ronon said panting, licking his fingers.

“The deepest deserts on Earth get at least few inches every year. There must be a cold front up there, dumping the rest here,” Sheppard said. “If we had some tubing we could siphon more out of the fissures in the bedrock.”

They had every possible empty container, amassing every drop of water, the two of them sitting against a wall of sandstone. “It’ll take a while to fill everything.” With the first smile in ages, he stripped off his robe, allowing the drizzle to mist over his bare skin.

“Can’t beat a free shower,” Ronon said.

They both stood there, spreading the water over their arms, chest, and legs, the sprinkle slowly ridding weeks of grime. This was nature’s rare gift and Ronon basked in it for as long as possible, never knowing when he’d need to tap into this inspiration to carry on later.

* * *

Six days before the edge of a storm had dusted them with water, cleansing their bodies of sand and earth. 

It'd been fifteen days since the water tanker had last appeared overhead. 

Without the rise and setting of the sun, or the regular cycles of the water tankers, there was no real way to track time. They had guesses based on sleep patterns and how long it took Sheppard to explore the foothills for food, counting his steps as he went, and estimating the passage of time based on plotting positions on Ronon‘s map. But the Void lived up to its name, a dead zone for insect, plant, or animal. Nothing, but the two of them. Sheppard had tried scouting for the path Malvick used to go back and forth without success, hitting sheer walls of stone with no way around them. 

“What about other caves?” Ronon suggested, stretching both legs out in front of him. Always testing and pushing them. “Found ants in ours.” 

“Lyle was right, there aren’t very many around. At least none with entrances large enough that I can squeeze into.” Sheppard kneaded the muscles of his wounded arm, flexing his bicep. “Maybe at higher elevations,” he said, fingers digging into his injury.

“You’re gonna pop out the stitches again,” Ronon warned. 

Sheppard froze, dropping his hand into his lap. The band of thread was a dark contrast to the rosy pink laceration, the tender flesh less swollen than before. But Sheppard had scratched and pressed on the wound in times lost in thought, bleeding all over himself, forcing Ronon to re-suture it. 

Like he was doing again.

Ronon kicked at Sheppard’s foot. “I’ll tie your hands behind your back.”

Sheppard balled up his fists and leaned his head against the wall, ignoring him.

* * *

Ronon adjusted the pair of old BDUs around his leg into a tight wrap, wondering when all the muscles there had disappeared. “Think something happened to the Saurin?”

“Don’t know.”

It had been day sixteen or seventeen since the last water tanker. 

“What about...you know...”

“We can’t speculate about the Saurin right now.” Sheppard pulled on his outerwear and sheathed Ronon’s knife in plain sight around a rope belt. “We need to assess our current situation. Find additional means to gather supplies.”

Neither of them spoke of unknowns, that their wardens might’ve stopped supplies, cut their losses. Or that maybe…just maybe…someone had distracted them, perhaps even waged battle against their might, diverting resources. That at this very moment…

No, rescues were mere dreams, the ones that made up tiny points of light in the sky. 

Ronon finished splinting his leg with as much support as possible and folded a strip of cloth in half and wrapped it around his head in the same manner as Sheppard‘s.

“What are you doing?” his CO demanded.

“Coming with you.”

“No, you’re not.” 

Sheppard dismissed him without hesitation, running a cactus comb through hair scrubbed with rainwater from a week ago. 

“I’m not staying behind.” Ronon grabbed his crutch, the one with the stripped-away arm rest. “I refitted this into a walking stick.”

“Walking stick? Is that what they’re calling canes now?”

“I’ll use it on the way there to save energy…then,” Ronon slid his hand halfway toward the middle, “it becomes just another weapon to bash someone‘s skull in,” he said, slicing the air right next to Sheppard’s head.

“You’ve walked around the cave. Gone what? A few yards in one direction?” 

“Hundreds. You know your limits; trust me to know mine.”

Sheppard would’ve paced if he could stand all the way up, and rubbed at his temple. “I do trust you. More than most anyone. But to let you go into unknown hostile territory where a single sign of weakness will get you killed is irresponsible.”

“You mean like exchanging your blood for water? Or battling in a set of death matches all alone?”

“I did what I had to do.”

“Well, this is something I need to do.” Ronon allowed his words to sink in, stepping forward. “This is our fight for survival.” Sheppard was giving in, eyes breaking contact, and Ronon went for it. “What soldier goes into an area blind? Without backup?” When his friend looked away, Ronon went for the kill. “We both know our limits. If I reach mine then I’ll turn back. If not, you’re gaining a better position with a show of strength. They won’t expect it. There’s no better strategy than surprise.”

It was rare to see Sheppard’s eyes burn like vibrant colored stones. The torchlight made them glow. “Do exactly as I say. No arguments.” 

“I’ve got your back, Sheppard.”

Stiff shoulders relaxed. “It’ll be nice to have, buddy.”

* * *

Walking. Ronon was walking, taking step by painful step. He’d gone five hundred paces when he woke up during the day and before bed, exercising and preparing for this journey since Sheppard’s return from the balick matches. 

“Let me know the moment you feel flushed or dizzy. We’re not properly hydrated and dehydration will kill you out here,” his CO informed him.

“Got it.”

“Breathe through your nose only.”

Ronon nodded and fifty steps turned into a hundred, followed by two hundred. Sheppard maintained a brisk pace, nothing punishing, just fast and steady to keep them going. They sipped water, with only a dunka between them for the trip there and back. An eighth of the required fluids for an hour in these temperatures, according to Sheppard. But you adapted or died. They maintained silence to conserve energy, the flat basin slowly rising to higher terrain and rocky plateaus.

Sheppard used hand gestures, signaling Ronon to follow him under the shadow from a deposit of gravel and rock. They lay flat on their bellies, the wind whipping dust around them. The cloth around his face prevented breathing in the irritants, and his leg had slowed from a pounding throb to a slow steady ache.

It’d taken fifteen hundred steps to reach this rest point, and there’d be a thousand more to the settlement. Sheppard handed him the dunka pouch, eying him critically. “Always take a twenty minute break then head for the settlement. It’s about a mile and a half from our shelter.”

“So, about a kilometer?”

“You’ve been hanging out with McKay too long.”

The landscape gradually roughened into foothills and caves. At six hundred footfalls, Sheppard pointed at Ronon’s cane and he ceased using it for support, forcing his leg to take the full brunt of his weight. The outskirts of the settlement were the eroded remains of a mountain long since gone, caves washed smooth by sand and wind, sprinkled with cinnamon and cayenne powder. 

Leather soles crunched on rock, the noise echoing loudly in the canyon. It made Ronon twitchy and Sheppard nervous, goggles constantly scanning the caves, his hand on the hilt of his knife. “This way,” he said, weapon out.

Ronon ground his teeth together, forced himself to walk without a hobble, his cane an edgeless sword ready to bear down on any threat. Sheppard held out his hand in a fist, and they both froze, Ronon straining for sounds of danger, ears picking up noise off in the distance. Sheppard scanned for the source, but Ronon pinpointed it twenty meters east in the direction of a larger grotto. “Over there.”

Backing up, they used the wall for cover, observing six men drag a seventh out of his cave kicking and screaming. There was a short scuffle, a flurry of kicks and fists, and the man’s shouts a dying echo. Ronon tensed, body moving, Sheppard’s arm lashing out to restrain him.

Jerking away, Ronon continued forward, and he was yanked back and shoved into the wall. Stunned, he shook his head, and stared into a set of dark-tinted goggles. “Why did you--”

“Stand down. That’s an order.”

Ronon bristled and Sheppard held his ground, arm dug into Ronon’s chest. Taking a breath, he nodded and only then did his CO ease off. “Sorry. Instinct.”

“Fight it,” Sheppard snapped, watching the group’s movements.

The six were joined by three more and they dragged away the man snagged from his home. The group moved on to the next cave, repeating the same barbaric act. By the third shelter, the mob didn’t have to subdue their victim, towing a limp body between them.

“They’re heading away from here. Let’s keep going,” Sheppard ordered, turning.

Ronon stomped out the fever in his veins to march over there and crack skulls and followed his team leader, agreeing, deep down, with the strategy but hating it.

* * *

The market was a welcome relief from the heat and a gigantic disappointment. Removing his goggles, Ronon’s heart thudded painfully in his chest with the temporary blindness, slowly taking in the desolate chamber. “Where is everyone?” 

“I. Don’t. Know.” Sheppard’s eye gear dangled by his neck, fingers brushing stone platforms and kneeling to examine footprints in the large dust covered floor. “This place was always bustling. Anywhere from ten to thirty regular traders and dozens of others hawking things to those walking about.” 

“Wonder what happened?”

“Something big. No signs of blood, though if there were some, it’d be siphoned away.” Making a slow circle, Sheppard set his sights on a darkened corridor. “There were other areas for trade. People took refuge in the catacombs. We’ll start there.” Glancing Ronon’s way, he gestured at his leg. “How are you holding up?”

“Good enough to keep looking.”

“I’d be careful if I was you.”

Both of them spun at the voice; a figure emerged from the very direction they intended to go. The guy carried a small empty sack over his shoulders, a dingy blue head scarf concealing most of his face except for a pair of fuzzy eyebrows and the start of a graying beard.

“Ketra.” Sheppard greeted the man without enthusiasm and turned to Ronon. “This is the guy I worked for gathering romari.” 

Ronon growled stepping forward. “In Spraza territory.”

“No, in _neutral lands_. If you followed those fools into disputed areas, wasn’t my fault.” Ketra hefted himself heavily onto the stone platform next to them. “Seems you’ve lasted through these trying times. Ought to thank ya; you made me a lot of money during the last balick match.” Removing a sandal, he rubbed at his dirt-crusted toes. “Good thing too, since I bet against ya during the first three.” 

“That’s nice and all, but you mind telling me what happened here?” Sheppard gestured at the abandoned chamber.

“War. Spraza sent their men here, chased out anyone aligned with the Jad. Sellers, buyers, didn’t matter. When that wasn’t enough, they started stealing from the rest of us,” Ketra spat.

“What about the Jad?” Sheppard asked.

“What about ‘em? They raided all the Spraza supplies to choke them out during the balick match. Part of the big plan, right?”

“Not mine,” Sheppard snapped.

Laughing, Ketra shook his head. “Whatever you say. The Jad just have to wait and see how long it’ll take when the Spraza can’t feed all their men.”

“Guess they’re lucky the tankers stopped showing up, huh?”

The merchant stared up at Sheppard. “No, just means there’s gonna be a lot of thirsty people when it arrives.”

Ronon took a seat on the opposite end of the stone, close enough to snap the man’s neck at the first wrong move. “What’s going on out there? In the caves?”

“Desert law.” Ketra shrugged.

“They’re going after the weakest,” Sheppard growled. 

“Or just the weak. Most people hole up in groups.” Removing his headdress, Ketra slapped it against the stone platform to rid the orange dust coating it before slipping it back on. 

“Why won’t the others all gather together? Safety in numbers?” Ronon asked.

Ketra stared at him funny and it was Sheppard who answered. “Why take in those who can’t wage their own battles? When it can buy everyone else time?”

“If you came here looking to barter, best be going to the Jad. They might swap with you,” Ketra said, slipping on his sandal. 

“Sounds like the perfect spot for an ambush,” Sheppard said dismissively. 

“If I were the Spraza, I’d be waiting outside Jad territory and take out anyone going in,” Ronon tagged in.

“Yes, makes it tough,” Ketra feigned sympathetically.

“That’s if there isn’t another spot.” Sheppard stood real close to Ketra, blocking his way. “Say a secret place for those to gather?”

“Perhaps.” Ketra grinned. “I’m sure with the right connection you could find it.”

Before Ronon had a chance to demonstrate his persuasiveness, Sheppard snagged Ketra’s wrist, slamming it down onto the stone, and pressed a knife below the middle knuckle. “How about I don’t slice this off?”

Squirming, the merchant protested until Sheppard drew blood to Ronon’s surprise. Ketra quickly babbled a set of directions and Sheppard deftly removed the blade. “If you’re lying, I’ll hunt you down and you’ll lose more than a finger. Got it?”

The merchant nodded furiously, scuttling away like a scared animal. “Pretty bad-ass,” Ronon said sincerely.

Sheppard paid no heed to the compliment. “I think maybe you should…”

“Stay on your six? Yeah, doing that already.” They squared off in posture, but Ronon wasn’t having any of it. “I’m in just as much danger going back on my own as you are searching. We stick together.”

* * *

It took sixty seconds for someone to stumble out of the darkness toward them. Ronon shoved the blur against the wall; Sheppard slipped a knife under a stubbled chin. Sickly yellow eyes peered from a face slick with sweat and greasy smears of red paint. A collarbone protruded out under Ronon’s hand, a wheezy breath rustling across his beard.

“I have no weapon!”

Sheppard pressed the blade’s tip under the soft tissue. “Don’t think we care.” 

“I don’t want trouble. I’m lookin’ for orris! Can’t find any. You got some?”

“Why don’t you ask your Spraza buddies?” Sheppard hissed.

“We don’t have any!”

“None?” Sheppard scoffed.

The Spraza tried wiggling loose to no avail. “Rull. Maybe a few dozen other have it, but they aren’t sharing and the Jad won’t sell it to me.” 

“Wash that crap off your face,” Ronon suggested.

“The dye stains the skin. I’ve tried.” Trembling fingers slowly urged Sheppard's knife away. “Come on! _Freza!_ We‘re all dying. All I want is a little peace!”

Removing his blade, Sheppard stepped back. “Go on. Get out of here.”

Ronon felt like a little payback, but this guy wasn’t the one to get it from and allowed the Spraza to scuttle away. “Sounds like the Spraza are falling apart. Should be good for us.”

Wiping a tired hand over his face, Sheppard blew out a breath. “Let’s hope so.”

* * *

Winding through tunnels the width of Teyla’s waist was difficult enough with two good working legs, not to mention sudden changes in the ceiling that had him banging his skull. Ronon couldn’t see crap and the floor kept trying to roll his ankles with the uneven footing. At every corner, he prepared for a knife in the back and was astonished when none ever came.

He went from sucking in his stomach to squeeze through, to nearly falling when the floor disappeared for a second. Reaching out for the wall to guide him, he was suddenly blinded by torchlight. Sheppard cursed and Ronon readied to meet an attack. 

“Well, look who it is. The great balick champion. I would love to go toe to toe with you next time.” A tall man, taller than Ronon, popped knuckles covered by crude tattoos. He was all long limbs and bad teeth, surrounded by three torch bearers and four others behind him. “And would this be the one you’ve been protecting this whole time?”

“It’s you who needs protecting,” Ronon snarled. 

Sheppard stepped in front of him, his back a straight line of tension. “If you want a match when they come back around, fine. But for now, what do you say to some trading? I’m sure those who have allied themselves with you would like to barter.”

Voices carried inside tight walls and Sheppard’s echoed loudly enough to attract the curious. 

“What do they have?”

“Bring them over.”

The welcoming committee moved aside and Ronon glared at the skinny man the whole time. “Who was that?” he whispered.

“Pullo, one of my buddies.”

The room was lit by more torches and his head swam with fumes of burnt herbs and animal hair. Men smoked and talked in tense circles and scurried around them in a competition of hand waving and shouting. Ronon’s leg was a twisted twine of pulse points, but he found a wall to lean against while Sheppard verbally sparred for supplies.

Their need for water was no different among the Jad so Sheppard bartered what they could spare for food, not knowing when fresh reserves would become available. The only edible items were dried fruit, roots, cacti and insect pieces to brew into a soup. 

“What about fernandi?” Sheppard asked.

“The sands have blown for weeks. No way to get to them,” one of the merchants replied.

Water stones traded for satchels of food and Ronon contemplated the odds of fighting their way back into the desert. He mapped the chamber, positions of people, the exits and entrances. More and more men huddled in corners, a thick haze of smoke obscuring their activities and filling the room.

A one-eyed man of slithering skin and bones hovered within Sheppard’s line of sight, his CO acknowledging him with a slight nod. The two spoke without words, both their backs blocking Ronon’s visual plane, the two breaking away just as he pushed off the wall.

“I think we should be leaving,” Sheppard warned him. “You ready?”

It was amazing how much standing stole his stamina. “Let’s get out of here.”

Everything about this space, about these people, prickled at his skin, forced his mouth in a flat line. He felt the weight of Pullo’s eyes, of the stone crevasses closing in on them in the maze to the outside, from stuffy tombs to wide open skies and sand.

Things became a thumping drum of motion and heat, of urgency and danger. 

“Come on, buddy. Just keep moving.”

Ronon knew the hard feel of the cane between his fingers and the jolting needles from his hip to his toes. 

“That’s it, just a little longer. Should‘ve never let you go this long.”

Pain, pain, pain. It pushed him forward, shoved him in the back. A voice in the wind encouraging him to keep going, keep walking. Then something took his weight and Ronon fought, knowing he had to appear stronger than this.

“We’re far enough away. It’s okay,” the voice said. 

It wasn’t until golden sands morphed into harsh blocks of stone and sweet water was pressed to parched lips, that reality sunk into his bones. “What happened?’

“You overdid it, big guy. Time to take it easy.”

“Did we…”

“We dodged a few roaming thugs, but no one saw us. And we weren’t followed.”

Ronon rubbed at the knots of pain in his leg. “Must’ve zoned out. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You hung in there, walked on a bum leg the whole time. You haven’t been out in the heat as much as I have. Your body will adjust.” 

“Did we get what we needed?”

“Yeah, we’ll get by.”

* * *

Sunscreen, UV glasses, fresh water, and proper loose clothing. The human body required so many things to survive the smallest amount of time in the heat, fragile skin unable to protect itself compared to a simple cactus. John picked pink blossoms and chewed on the minty petals. He chopped off the top, squeezing the pulp out, and sucked away a tangy sour juice that sloshed over his tongue. Drained of all water and plucked of fruit, it still had more to offer, and he cut into the rind, carving out another comb, running the razor-sharp spines through his hair.

He was meticulous, starting in the back to smooth out the knots of straw into something less like the mane of an abused mutt. He ran his fingers through the layers of his hair and over his bearded face. It gave him a shudder, reminding him of being stuck inside a time dilation field. But he hadn’t been abandoned then as he had thought, not dumped in the middle of nowhere to be lost and forgotten. 

“Still John Sheppard,” he whispered.

There was no telling how long he sat in silence. He thought about working out the math problem scribbled on the opposite wall, but it wasn’t worth wasting oil. Maybe if he...

“Sheppard!”

Taking off like a shot, John ran toward the urgency in his friend’s voice, ears picking up on the same roar that had Ronon pulling on his boots. “That sounds like the water transport.”

John threw on his robe and grabbed his keffiyeh, wrapped the layers around his head. He saw Ronon doing the same, and shook his head at his still weak friend. “You’re not--”

“I’m going.”

“This is more dangerous than a stroll through town.”

“More reason for me to go.”

“But last time...”

“Was a couple days ago. And it was a lot further.”

“I’m not gonna argue with you.”

“Then don’t. It’s going to be bad out there and you know it.”

“It‘ll be worse than you could ever imagine,” John growled.

“We’ll figure out a strategy once we get there. You might be able to get the water on your own, but you won’t make it back without help.”

John hesitated and Ronon was right there, by his side like the old days. 

“Okay, but…”

“Follow your orders,” Ronon finished for him. “You’re like one of those talking birds.”

Ronon was outside, already ahead of him before John could protest the insult.

* * *

They‘d be lucky to fight for leftover drops since every man with two working legs had a head start, and the tanker entered a low orbit with a hike still looming ahead. There been no time to mentally prepare, to get in the right head space for what lay ahead. Ronon huffed behind him and John glanced behind his back. “Steady breaths, big guy,” he ordered.

The ship made no attempt to lower its cargo and they crossed the distance with time to spare; the entire population of the planet circling. “This isn’t good. We’ll go slowly.”

They made out two war camps, literal armies of men chomping at the bit to engage one another, surrounded by loose groups of people not associated with either gang staying at a safe distance. 

“There’s got to be about four hundred people.” Judging by some of the garments, even most of the merchants were here. John stared up at the tanker. “The Saurin have got to know they don’t have enough water for everyone.”

“I count about one fifty in the first gang, little over a hundred in the other. Can’t tell who is who with all head scarves,” Ronon reported. “The others must be the stragglers.”

“The bigger group’s the Spraza. They’ll use their numbers like armed escorts. See how they’re lining up? Surrounding those with all the containers?” Ronon nodded and Sheppard gestured. “The Jad aren’t used to this; they’re not in as tight a group. Now that they can’t trade for water, there are too many people. I can’t find a good path through them.”

“What do you usually do?”

“Make my way to the front beforehand.”

“Don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Yeah, we might have to--”

The cargo bay doors opened and the familiar clanking whine of the tanker being lowered sent the crowds swarming. “Wait here and cover me when I come out.” John was going to circle around the back, but was nearly throttled when he was yanked back by his robe. “What the hell?”

“You can’t go in there.”

“There’s no choice.”

“We’ll find another way!” Ronon yelled over the screams.

The ground vibrated as the tanker was deployed, all sides hidden by the bodies converging on it. The Spraza split ranks, and rows of men charged the faucets, the back rows preventing the rest of the crowds from getting through their bulk. It was a familiar strategy, one John used to exploit by finding the weak unprotected spots. Even the Jad fought to get through them. 

Those not associated with the gangs scattered, searching for breaks in the crush of people, jumping onto the backs blocking them and getting beaten back. The screaming was worse than before, the same screams that invaded John‘s dreams and robbed him of sleep. The cries of men as they were trampled, morphing into those pinned down by gunfire, or sucked dry by Wraith. 

“It’s like a stampede of wild _dilk_ ,” Ronon’s voice broke through the clatter in his head. 

Opening eyes he had no memory of closing, John did what he always did. Shoved all that noise to the back of his mind. “The Jad and Spraza will use up all the water before anyone can get to it. We might have to change tactics.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Steal a page from their playbook.” 

John scanned for high ground, finding the perfect hiding spot when Ronon grabbed his shoulder. “Sheppard.”

Shifting his gaze, John noted the Jad had fallen back as a unit, bringing slender tubular objects to their mouths. “What are those?” Squinting against motion and sunlight, he barely made out dozens of tiny barbs in the air. “Clever bastards. They’re homemade blow guns.”

Dozens of Spraza fell, but a larger group of them started to outflank the small Jad contingent and charged with rocks and knives. The massive brawl ignited out of control, the fight spilling out in all directions.

“We better get outa the way,” Ronon urged and John agreed, three or four men barreling past them. Followed by dozens of others. 

People clipped and shoved into John to escape the brawl. Ronon used his cane to beat people away, the two of them like salmon swimming upstream. But people still wanted water, and those coming and going collided in a tangled mess.

The Jad blew topra dust in the faces of their enemy, cutting the straps from their water containers, and beating them afterwards.

A chunk of the fighting fell right in front of John’s feet. “Death to the Jad!” a Spraza shouted, stomping on a man with three of his buddies. 

“Move!” 

John spun at Ronon’s voice as the big guy shoved him out of the way--four gang members barreling into the space where he’d been standing. Everywhere chaos reigned, and when it didn’t seem it could get any worse, the tanker got retracted back into the cargo bay.

“Regroup and focus on the water!”

John recognized Pullo’s voice a few meters away, directing those around him.

“Your life’s blood is mine!” Rull charged out of nowhere, and Pullo pushed another Jad in front of him, the knife thrusting into the poor SOB’s chest. 

Pullo tripped in his haste to get away; the random Jad member stared at his blood soaked clothes, dropping to his knees. Licking the blade, Rull took a handful of spiky hair and sliced at the skin underneath, scalping the man. “Kill them all!” Scanning around, his goggles froze in John’s direction and he pointed with the bloody blade. “Do not let that one live!”

“Crap! Move, Ronon!” John yelled.

They were in the middle of an epic war movie, bodies and screaming everywhere, all in tinted brown and yellow. John pressed his back to Ronon’s and they squared off against those rushing towards them, knife and cane in hand.

Before John could say a final word, a chorus of booming voices thundered at a thousand decibels around them. 

“This activity is a violation of law. All those who transgress shall be punished.”

An electric jolt of pain and white light seized through John's body. 

And then there was only blackness.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

A tuning fork vibrated against his eardrums, whirring a hole into his brain. John’s muscles twitched; nerves rerouted through the slow circuitry of his body. Around him, moans and grunts jumbled with sounds of heaving in the dirt, the noise nearly triggering a similar bout of sickness. Eyes rolling in their sockets, he pushed himself up, his arms giving out from the strain.

“R’non?”

“It feels like my stomach’s been pulled inside out.”

“Too much information,” John groaned, the ground spinning beneath him. “What happened?”

“Stun grenade.”

“A what?” Belly churning, John forced his legs to work so he was sitting. “Did you see a stun grenade?”

Ronon held on to his head, already semi-upright on the ground. “No, but it felt like one.”

“We should…” It was difficult to talk with the dentist drill in his head. John massaged his temples and took a deep breath to calm the nausea. Opening his eyes, he noticed everyone else was either still unconscious or in various states of disarray. They were completely vulnerable. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Don’t think they’ll let us.”

John followed Ronon’s line of sight, heart thumping against his ribcage. “Fuck.”

Grabbing his cane, Ronon brought the weapon closer. “Those the Shan’ka?”

“Yeah, but I never knew there were that many.” 

A couple dozen blue robed sons of bitches stood at a distance, surrounding them in a circle. Those not throwing up were too scared to move. Ronon looked at John for orders, but he shook his head. “I think we’re about to witness desert law in action.” 

Ronon eagerly gripped his cane. “We just gonna wait?” 

All John wanted was for his head to stop pounding, but more people were coming around, the Shan’ka hanging back, allowing them all to bake in the sun. The Jad’s dead body had disappeared and that’s when John noticed the metal equipment where the water tanker used to be. How the hell did those get out here?

“Someone’s coming.” Ronon glanced John’s way. “Still have the knife?”

Nodding, John kept the weapon hidden, recognizing the figure taking the stage. “Looks like we’re about to find out what’s going on. He's the local spokesperson.”

Misha appeared in layers of blue that swallowed him whole, waiting for the full attention of the others. “The laws of Medena have been violated. The shedding of life’s water is unacceptable and is a violation of law. The Shan’ka will not allow strife to wreck the balance.” Searching his masters for some hidden signal, he wet his lips. “The Shan’ka will remind you of the consequences of your transgressions.”

“Rise,” a chorus of voices ordered them. 

John gave Ronon a hand to his feet and nearly lost his balance. Ronon steadied him in turn and the two of them leaned on one another until they were both surefooted. The rest of the groups took longer getting up, still shaking off the effects of weakness and the stunning. 

“We outnumber them twenty to one,” Ronon whispered.

“Left my P-90 in my other robe. Besides,” John looked around, “don’t think anyone’s in shape to fight.”

Misha strolled through the bedraggled, many fearfully making room for him. He stopped in the center, where the eye of the storm had once been. “Who is responsible for breaking the rule of law?”

“The Jad _tok_ started it!” Rull yelled, his weapon tucked away. “And attacked us from behind.”

“Topra is not outlawed. It was the Spraza who used stones and knives,” Pullo countered. 

“What of the blood staining your fingers?” Rull grabbed Pullo’s wrist and bent it for all to see.

“And what of the blood on your shirt?” Pullo demanded, jerking away.

“There were seven unclean deaths,” Misha announced, both leaders backing off. “Who spilled life's water?” A giant murmur swept across the masses, many taking steps back. The Spraza closed ranks, halting the backwards movement and Misha swept a hand around. “How many of you are injured? And of unable body?’

“I am not Spraza or Jad! I obey the rules. Do not punish me!”

“I came for water and was stepped on by the others!”

“We only want to wet our mouths? How is this fair?”

The downtrodden rose up for the first time, their anger triggering something familiar, visceral deep inside John. The defiance energized Ronon, his muscles tensing.

“Enough!” booming voices commanded.

Again Misha paused and John wondered if the Shan’ka used their telepathy to communicate with him, their collective authority, ringing through his voice. “Who is responsible?” He glared at the nearest man not painted in colors, who shrank away. “Did you not see?”

“I saw nothing,” the man replied.

Misha demanded answers from those around him, the same replies echoing. 

“I don’t know.”

“There was too much fighting.”

Tension radiated from both gangs; Pullo and Rull stared down any witness. The dentist drill was behind John’s right eye when Misha stopped before him. “What did you see?” The Shan’ka drew closer, forcing the masses into each other’s space, sweat and fear rank in the air. “One of the bodies was only paces away from where you stood. To lie to the Shan'ka is also punishable.”

Picking either side would bring down the wrath of the other. Pullo glared at him and Rull couldn’t wait to stick a knife in John’s back. Well, he was sick of playing their games. “They both did,” he replied. 

Both men screamed, lunging toward him. Ronon took a step in front of John, but it wasn’t necessary. John felt the wind first, saw the rush of blue seconds later. A pair of Shan'ka flanked Rull and Pullo, picking them up, feet kicking uselessly off the ground as they were hauled toward the others. 

“How'd they move that fast?” Ronon demanded.

John's words were lost when the other Shan'ka herded them all forward, using steel rods pulled from their sleeves. He remembered the strong-armed goon squad, but the rods were new. They had to hurt based on the cries of those who didn't move fast enough. John kept a hand on Ronon's shoulder as they were crushed against others, hoping the big guy's leg would hold up. It took seconds to corral them around the strange metal equipment, Pullo and Rull struggling in the iron grip of their captors. 

The jam of people filtered out as the crowds were forced into a circle around the two large metal objects. Ronon leaned on his cane nonchalantly next to John, both their bodies tightly wound up. The Spraza and Jad huddled together, and a small group of men smacked into John, Ziffka marking his first appearance with a daggered glare. “You are no longer a friend of the Jad,” he snarled. 

“Where did he come from?” John asked, following his position toward his men.

“Saw him off to the side observing the fights before we were stunned. Didn't know who he was. Goggles and hoods obscure too many faces,” Ronon complained, then placed a hand on John's shoulder. “You made the right choice.”

John massaged his left bicep. “We'll see. Stupid to think the answer would somehow cancel each other out.”

Misha followed his masters to the front and addressed the crowds. “The Shan'ka regret this demonstration of law, but feel a reminder is necessary.”

For the first time, John saw terror reflected in the faces of the loudest, cruelest members of this barren rock. The equipment was moved closer on an automotive track wheel and the two prisoners fought to escape their captors. The equipment was more like two giant steel barrels, each a little over six meters in height. Pullo whimpered and Rull sank his teeth into the arms holding him place without effect.

Two Shan'ka opened the doors to each metal drum and Rull and Pullo were manhandled inside, fighting tooth and nail, their wrists and ankles shackled to chains. They screamed, for mercy, for death.

“The prisoners are secured inside the units and the door sealed closed,” Misha narrated. 

“Thank God,” John mumbled as the screams were muffled.

Misha never looked behind as he spoke. “The units will fill with recycled water.”

The Shan'ka connected thick tubes to the top lids and started pumping water from tanks connected in the back. 

“They being drowned?” Ronon wondered.

“That would be less painful,” a man muttered.

John wanted to bug-out and skip the tutorial on this new form of execution. He dug his nails into his palms and closed his eyes, but his imagination was a far scarier place. He could still hear them, under the sounds of gushing water and a layer of metal. Among the throngs, he saw the dividing line between the resigned veterans and the newbies crapping themselves.

The pumping ended, the tubes removed, and another set attached. Misha spared a quick glance at the process and continued. “The purification solution will be added.”

Both prisoners banged on the inside of their tombs, still alive, still screaming. The new tubes were thinner and opaque in color, the solution yellowish as it was poured inside, the base of the tanks glowing hot.

“The heat mechanism at the bottom will activate the chemical reaction,” Misha explained.

Nothing happened for a precious twenty seconds, then something worse than screaming cracked the air. John's mind flashed to his first time seeking out water, at a bandit shoving John's knife into his chest instead of being taken alive. 

The cries, while only lasting seconds, were heart-stopping, worse than Kadar's wails of pain, and it seemed to go on forever.

Then there was nothing. 

The Shan'ka rolled out a set of smaller tanks, connected yet another set of tubes just above the heating element of the base. Ronon fidgeted; standing in a single spot had to be agony, but it was more than his leg getting to him. 

Misha spoke again, explaining the last phase. “Now the bodies will be separated into basic parts.”

Salts and sugars, skin, bones and fat. All a big slushy; that was until the Shan'ka filtered out the solid. John fought back the bile as two men were liquefied as a fucking lesson.

One of the Shan'ka nodded at their spokesperson, and Misha was unable to hide a shudder. “Thirty sumas of water will be added to the reserves. And now... seven of you will be randomly chosen to be purified as a deterrent.”

The crowd erupted in horror, fleeing in all directions, seven into the arms of the Shan'ka goons, Misha yelling over the ruckus. “It is your duty to maintain the law. To make sure others adhere to it.”

With seven carted off, everyone else was allowed to flee to their caves, the water transformation tanks wheeled back to the Shan'ka lair. The _deterrents_ were dragged away to be murdered out of sight. 

John flinched when a hand landed on his shoulder. Ronon gave it a squeeze and gently guided him home; both walked silently the whole trip back.

* * *

Food was shoved into his hands and John ate without thought. He was hot and sweaty and sick of smelling and feeling like a barn animal rolled in shit. Of being treated and viewed as fodder for about everyone on this hellhole. 

“Those two deserved to die,” Ronon said. John didn't bother replying to such an absurd statement and Ronon cleared his throat. “Maybe not like that.”

“Let's not forget about the other seven.”

“They grabbed those already injured.”

“Noticed that, did you?”

“Yeah.”

“Guess that makes it all better?”

“No.”

John had nothing left in the fuel tank; his wheels spun uselessly and he banged the back of his head against the wall. 

Ronon didn't wait a beat before plowing on. “The real question is, where'd they get that equipment?”

“Haven't figured that out yet. I mean who or what are they?”

“You were inside their lair. They have anything we could use?”

“Use? Like a water processing machine?”

Ronon gave him a dirty look. “Communication devices? Weapons? Anything to get us out of here?”

“I saw cave walls and spooky lights. Their filtration system and holding tanks are hidden by rock. And there are these guys in robes who have the ability to stun hundreds of people guarding the place.”

“At least I'm trying to think of a way home!” Ronon's face fell as soon as he uttered the words, but what was done was done. “My leg's better. I'm more mobile. If the Shan'ka aren’t the way, what about the Void?”

“I wouldn't call you travel ready,” John mumbled. 

“Malvick said he'd show us a way inside.”

“Oh, Malvick _said_ he would?”

“I think he knows something that'll help us.”

“And when is he planning to reveal these secrets?”

“Soon.”

“Yeah, I'll mark it on my calendar.”

“He brought you back from the balick match and didn't have to,” Ronon growled. 

“Because he wants something from us!”

“What?”

“I don't know. He did something, or said something...I don't remember,” John snapped, frustrated. “He's not trustworthy.”

“Didn't say we should trust him. Just use him. We're not pawns if we're playing the same game.”

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, John's fingers got tangled up in the knots and he yanked them through, pulling out tufts in the process. “Fine. We'll wait.” Tired and hurting from a pounding migraine, he stared off, Ronon's eyes watching him. “What?”

“I think we should help at the water tanks.”

“Help?”

Ronon chewed on a dry root. “There's no reason why everyone can't get a share.”

Not believing his ears, John dug his knuckles into his eyes, “We're not talking about a rowdy line in the mess hall. Gangs make their living off those tanks.”

“You saw it out there. Just as many people aren't in a gang. All they have to do is band together.”

“You want to organize a bunch of criminals into a unit?”

“I want to show them that they don't have to bow down like that. They stood up for themselves against the Shan'ka.”

“We're not here to lead a rebellion. Or start our own gang.”

“You’d rather fight it out every time? Watch the weak be beaten down by those thugs?”

John's body trembled, voice dangerously low. “No, I wouldn't. Do you think I enjoy myself out there?” 

Inching closer, Ronon bent over, fixing his eyes on John's. “I wasn't lying before. We do what it takes to survive. But things are different. The Spraza lost their leader. They'll be disorganized. We might be able to use this. They might listen to you, John.”

“Because I killed a bunch of people?”

“Yes.”

The answer hurt him to the core. “No. No more drawing attention. No more rocking the boat or bring turned into some mercenary. _No. More_ ,” John muttered, and crawled away into his refuge in the back. 

Ronon didn't follow him, he rarely ever did, which was good because John wasn't in the arguing mood. He allowed the inky blackness to swallow him whole and paced back and forth, tendrils of anger boiling in the pit of his belly. 

Ronon was right about not sitting back while the weak were trampled, allowing tyranny to rule over the broken. It was his duty. _Libertatem Defendimus_. But you had to pick your battles and this was one war they couldn't win.

_Since when has that ever stopped you?_

It did. When he allowed an old man to be murdered in the middle of some tent so he could fight another day. To help those who could be saved. 

_And how many have you rescued, John? How many slipped through your fingers? Do you even remember all their names?_

Balling his fist, he punched the wall, the pain ricocheting through his fingers, his body quaking. Pressing his forehead against the stone, he punched it again halfheartedly.

Those he saved were supposed to make up the balance of those he killed. And it was never going to happen. No matter how hard he tried. 

Sliding to his knees, he dug into the hidden pocket sewn into his pants and pulled out the tiny strip of cloth. Counting out the needles by touch, he pinched twenty, and hesitated. In for a penny, in for a pound, and he chewed the awful bitterness. Swallowing, he prayed it'd help bury all the crap spinning in his head. Force it back into the darkness of his mind, and keep it at bay just a little longer.

* * *

The sandstorm had begun when he'd fallen asleep, and had blown nonstop ever since. Time was meaningless, most of their waking hours spent in the dark to conserve oil. They blocked the entrance with their old uniforms and bedrolls, pulling back further from the opening.

It was the Sistan Basin all over again, dust storms gobbling up half of Afghanistan. John had been grounded a half dozen times, his unit huddled in a tent playing D&D to pass the time. Except they had generators and light, cards and radios. He'd kill for a flashlight and sheet of paper. Ronon couldn't tire himself out by walking outside, or draw and weave, and John's only means to burn up the growing dark pall bearing down on his soul was blocked by a wind tunnel of cut glass.

“Watch it,” he snapped when Ronon elbowed him in the face by accident.

“Don't be in the way,” Ronon snarled, crawling around.

There was no playing prime/not prime, trivia, or word games. The air was as thin as their tempers, the whirling dust storm making it hotter. To make matters worse, he had to take a piss and that meant fumbling for the torch, pouring the oil without spilling it, using this place's version of flint rock.

“What are you doing?”

“Gotta take a leak; that all right with you?”

“Can't do it without wasting the light?”

Ronon was gearing for a fight; he knew damn well that pissing on the walls was not an option. “Keep jawin' and I'll make burying the contents of the pot your regular duty,” John snapped. 

“You think you could make me?”

“Do I think I could slug you in the dark? Sure. But I'm not in the mood to play a violent version of Marco Polo.”

The sound of flesh smashing stone was a familiar one. Telling Ronon to stop was fuel to the fire and after a third time, the big guy cursed, followed by a _smack_. “Hey, don't break your crutch!” John yelled.

There was a frustrated snarl and shuffling. John finished his business and wandered in the back, dropping down to another set of push-ups. Maybe he'd do three hundred this time, or maybe four. Yeah, four hundred.

* * *

Food and water, once at a surplus, were dwindling as the sandstorm raged on. Without knowing the weather patterns of this world, John assumed the worst, chewing on several needles in thought. 

“We have ten sumas left. About five days worth of food at two rations a day.”

John lay on his back, staring upwards at shadow puppets.

“Think we should cut back? … … … … Sheppard?”

“I wonder,” John drawled. “You think time stops in here? I mean look at all the things we've encountered. Six months in the middle of a dilation field, days flew by in seconds.” Reaching out, he tried catching a floating kite of smoke. “Keller says I lost a couple years sleeping in that stasis pod in the future. McKay thought Todd gave me a few extra. Guess I evened out.”

“We're talking about today.”

“I think we missed Teyla's birthday,” John mumbled. 

“If this thing doesn't let up in a few days, we could wrap up head to toe in cloth, see about going outside. See how far we could go.”

“Makes you wonder about the others in the settlement. If they don't have the same supplies...” John was going to say more, then forgot these were the very thoughts he was chasing away. 

Something touched his arm, patting upwards toward his shoulder. “John, I'm talking about going outside. You've seen this type of storm. Do we have a chance?”

John pressed his palm flat against the flesh lingering on his shoulder, on warm dirt-crusted fingers, and he squeezed, feeling the life there. “Ronon?”

“Yeah.” 

John squeezed his eyes, the shadows swirling into his brain. “Didn't know you were there.”

* * *

He crushed the soap flakes between the pad of his thumb and forefinger, the greasy smear like flaky candle wax. It took two or three drops, enough for John to hesitate squeezing the splash at the bottom of his dunka pouch into the clay pot. But hygiene such as it was, still required a scrub week to week. If it'd been a week. Could have been a month since that rainfall, but their supplies told a better story. Sitting in ratty shorts, he dipped his fingers into the foam, spreading the lather over his arms and chest, leaving a soft burn across his skin. 

Using his shirt as a washcloth helped scrub the grime and simultaneously laundered the fabric. Spreading the fizzing bubbles over his neck, he dipped his fingers into the pot, dispersing it over his cheek, rubbing the soap in circles.

John grabbed his knife and brought the blade toward his face, and scraped it along his jaw line. That burned too, stripping away the beard, sheering off a layer of skin as well. Repeating the motion, he followed the contours of his face, around his nose, over his upper lip. Then he began on the other side, ignoring the blood dripping down his chin and the tremors through his fingers.

Breathing through his nostrils, he didn't stop there; fingers dug through his hair, snagging the tips and hacking them off. He remembered boot camp, the clippers buzzing over his scalp, the physical transformation all part of the military way. To leave the person you once were behind, shedding the undisciplined layers. 

He wiped at his smooth face and didn't feel any differently. Slapping his cheeks didn't help. God, where was he? Shouldn't this work? 

“Sheppard?”

John knew if he didn't answer he'd be poked and prodded by worried fingers, Ronon convinced he was injured or ill. “Yeah?”

“What are you doing?”

Did it matter? 

“I'm taking a shower,” John answered, knife splitting the air.

“Why don't you...”

“I'll be done in a little while. You can start teaching more Satedan.” 

All the words poured through John's head like a leaky hose, but it kept Ronon from going stir crazy. Kept John from crawling out of his skin, caught between spaces in his mind. 

There were his push-ups. He'd reached four thirty last time.

* * *

John was inside silence, drifting, floating, with no points in between. Everywhere and nothing. Yet, the boundless had a shape, an edge of sound. He didn't want a part of it, avoiding the noise, but the edge grew into a more refined pattern with words and emotion.

He didn't want to feel, or hear, or remember the things that tried cutting through the silence. 

The edge became a solid wall, punching him in the face with his name.

“Damn it, John! Wake up! What's wrong with you? And don't tell me nothing!” Ronon demanded, shaking him.

“You can let go of me,” John said, despite the feeling of free fall.

“I'll hit you again if you go back to sleep.”

John touched his cheek. “You hit me?” 

“Yeah. Now, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Wrong?” John parroted, the void around him luring him back inside its embrace.

Hands gripped his biceps and John was being dragged away, the shadow puppets following him. “What are you doing?” There was no controlling his momentum, and he was forced into the open, light streaming in blinding fractals of too bright. Too hot. “Crap.”

“The dust storm ended and the water tanker flew overhead.”

At the mention of the tanker, John physically flinched and he slowly removed the fingers covering his eyes. “I'll put on my boots.” Finding them was a problem; that and forward motion. Eyes adjusting to the light, he located his kicks, tied his laces with phantom fingers. Ronon's eyes bored holes through him, and John glanced up. “What?”

“What did you do to yourself?”

John stared back, blinking away a layer of cobwebs, wiping his face in a nervous habit, understanding sinking in. “Oh. I needed a trim.”

“Looks...”

“Like I didn't have a mirror.”

“You gonna stop lying to me?”

“About?”

“What's going on inside your head.”

“Ronon...”

“Do you think I'm blind or just dumb?”

Running his hands through his shortened hair, John scraped his nails across his scalp. “How about we talk about this after we get water?”

“When we get back are you going to talk or run away and hide?”

John stopped inches from Ronon's face. “Don't. Ever. Say. That.”

“Don't do it, and I won't,” Ronon gritted out, not backing down.

“Let's go,” John snapped, wrapping the keffiyeh around his face. The sudden flush he concealed had nothing to do with the temperature.

* * *

Outside was a page torn out of “Mad Max”, like someone had dumped the contents of a giant hourglass onto the terrain, and John turned around to look back at their cave to orient himself. 

“Sand did all this?” Ronon stood there, gazing out.

“They can move entire dunes. Dump meters of dust for miles,” John explained, gazing out at the once flat basin that was now an uneven orange sea of mounds and valleys. “The cave will be our compass.”

Turning behind him, Ronon mumbled, “Until we lose sight of it.”

Bristling, John marched on, feet sinking into newly minted powder. The water tanker flew in sweeps overhead, obviously trying to find a new drop zone not covered by hills of sand. “Come on.” 

John's legs moved, the rest of him floating somewhere above, detaching in segments. They navigated around deep rising slopes, struggled for footing, Ronon waving off John's help when he stumbled. And that bristled, too. 

Counting steps got lost in the rhythm of breathing and gusting hot winds, the fucking blob in the air taunting him. Did it think he'd just pack it up because it kept moving around? Casting a look at Ronon, John knew that was what his friend thought. 

They reached the Mecca of wandering souls and aimless cloth-wrapped zombies. Ronon elbowed him. “The knife?” John grabbed it protectively, not wanting to give it up. Ronon glowered. “Weapon’s more useful if people see it.” 

Brandishing the blade, the two of them scouted out a position near the familiar throngs. The parties were all here, both Spraza and Jad. The ship above hovered, the area before them a stretch of untamed rocky beach. This would be the best landing site.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a flash of a blue and orange turban and he was drawn toward the person. “Lyle?”

“There you are. Wondered if the dust storm blew you away,” he chuckled. It was like he'd shrunk two sizes, all his bluster whittled away. His beard wasn't trimmed and his clothes had seen better days. Lyle clutched an empty container between his fingers. Looking down at it, his laugh deepened. “Guess we're all at the mercy of the Saurin.”

“Thought you had plenty of stockpiles?”

“I did. Until the last balick match.” Lyle patted a sunburned hand on John's back. “Told you. Always bet on the guy they think won‘t win. Nothing personal.”

“You lost everything?”

“I do have one thing, but its looks like I won't be collecting on that anytime soon.” 

Ronon was looking on curiously and John shifted his feet in unease. “Yeah, well, I'll repay the rest of my debt soon.”

“There you go, reaching for things you can't grasp. Look around. We'll all be dead soon, Sheppard.”

Lyle took his container and waded through the crowd, and smack dab into a row of stronger backs, forced to find another path. There were more mouths to fill than gallons of water, and John's face grew hotter. Ronon was next to him, watching both Jad and Spraza split sides without a fight, their bulk outnumbering everyone else.

“You got a plan?” Ronon asked.

John gripped the knife, one eye on the tanker, the other on the crowds. He remembered exiting outside that tent in _Dai Chopan_ , the scream of an old man as it took more than one attempt to remove his head. He remembered his justifications, his fear, and his anger at walking away. 

Looking out at the madness before them, Ronon's words washed over him. 

_“I think we should help at the water tanks.”_

_“You’d rather fight it out every time? Watch the weak be beaten down by those thugs?”_

John was always supposed to do the right thing. He rubbed at the healed wound in his arm, squeezing it, seeking out the pain through the numbness. He was trying so hard. 

“Sheppard?” Ronon growled.

Pushing down his keffiyeh, he rubbed his hand over his beardless face, tracing the nicks and cuts. These were people damn it! He didn't want to be the guy with the beard, the guy he'd become to survive. “I'm Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard.” Ronon grabbed an elbow and John pulled away. “I'm not running.” 

“Hey!” he yelled, waving at anyone not sporting colors. “Listen!”

Screaming over a set of engines, John hollered louder, spinning around to see if he had people's attention. He wasn't a speech maker, never big about displays of bravado, and here he was, directing the spotlight on him. At a loss for big important words. 

“Why are we doing this? Letting them,” he pointed at the gangs, “beat us into submission?”

Ronon was beside him, cane a baton and John met the goggles staring at him. “If we act as a group, we can all get water. It doesn't matter what we are afterwards, but here. Where it counts. We won't let these assholes use their numbers against us. We'll have our own.”

“I don't want to be part of a gang.”

“No one cares what you say!”

“Leave us alone!”

“He killed Kadar!

“Shut up!”

It was a tango of rebukes and shouts, the grind of metal overtaking all sound. The hordes turned toward the quench of their thirst, lemmings to chaos and violence. Like a pinball bouncing from person to person, John was swept up by the swell of adrenaline and slammed ashore onto the populous of Medena.

He elbowed and kicked, blocked fists and rocks to the face. But John couldn't use the sharp end of the blade, couldn't bash their skulls with the knife handle. Not when he'd been forced to recognize them as human again and he cursed Ronon for shattering his wall. Dozens wrestled over faucets, the crowd thinning after the armies of red and green took their fill, leaving the backwash for the weak. 

Four men competed for the same sprocket, and John hesitated, knife wavering in his hand. 

A blur of cloth and the swing of a club, and Ronon was there, knocking the four to the ground. He smacked any kneecaps of those who got back up and tried to get close. Then he snatched one of their containers and filled it partway and handed it back to one of the shocked men, taking the second guy's jug and doing the same. The stunned four quit attacking him and kept anyone else away. Filling all four water satchels with something, Ronon took his own and replenished what he could and waved John over. 

“Think I can squeeze out a bit more,” he said.

John handed him his container, staring at all those banging their hands on the hollow tanker walls when nothing poured out. 

“You okay?” Ronon asked, shouldering the strap.

“Fine. Why?”

“You're breathing really hard.”

Licking dry lips, John realized how fast he gulped down air, his heart a chisel inside his chest. Pulling the cloth to cover his face, he nodded. “Good. Let's get out of here.”

The walk back was surreal, the route an Etch-a-sketch that someone had shaken viciously, redrawing his mental map. Ronon was right, without the cave, they'd lost their north star. The big guy led the way, silent save for intakes of breath, through and over dunes like frozen waves of sand eight meters high.

Ronon kept glancing back at John, heavy boots digging into dry slush. John was glad one of them knew where they were going, a strange buzzing noise inducing a newfound headache. It was slow going, John strangely exhausted, and Ronon's pace hampered by the heavy use of his cane. They followed a lazy bend in the sand and Ronon froze. “Sheppard!”

Knife out, John spotted the four bandits heading their way. There was a _'fiiift'_ and something stung John in the arm, three more darts missing. “Fuck, behind us!” he yelled, legs folding underneath him. 

“R'non,” John slurred and a warmth flooded his system and he was out instantly.

* * *

That annoying buzz from earlier became a swarm of hornets, their collective venom a warm flush in his veins. Memory tingled across his brain, and John peeled away gummy eyes to slits, a dozen sets of sandals before him. He'd been drugged enough by topra to recognize its lingering side effects. 

“Haul him to his feet.”

The connection between mind and body was loose a few circuits, and the world twirled when two hands pulled him onto rubbery legs. John blinked, surprised when Ziffka and his merry men fuzzed into shape instead of bandits.

“Whatz going on?” John growled, searching for Ronon.

Ziffka reeked of an orris den and he gave John a light pat on the shoulder. “You sold out a member of the Jad to the Shan'ka and for that, we were going to bide our time. Find the right moment to right a wrong.”

John's mind was on slow mo, eyes drifting from person to person. “Right a wrong? You're kidding?”

“But today's actions,” Ziffka nodded and the two goons yanked John's arms high between his shoulder blades, “required swift action.”

“You mean when I killed people for you in the balick matches? Or when I mowed through crowds at the water tanks? I forget.”

Ziffka smashed a fist into John's face, snapping his head back. “You always think me a fool.”

Ears ringing, John glared. “Talk to me like I've just been drugged.”

Taking John's chin between his fingers, Ziffka snarled, “You will not tip the balance of power we've taken. Did you think I'd stand by while you seized control?”

John snorted, and it turned into crazed manic laughter. Because didn't that really just take the cake? Ziffka didn't appreciate John's response, and planted a fist into his belly, the laugh wrenched into a strangled choke. 

Ziffka shook out the sting in his fingers. “You were a tool and now you're no longer needed.”

John allowed his body to sag within his captors’ grip. He was sick of fighting. “Guess that whole not murdering demonstration didn't work with you guys?”

“We have no plans of shedding your water, but you will pay for your transgressions. The desert will clean up the mess and you'll be another victim of Medena's sun.”

The thugs straightened John out, the circle of Jad closing in. “What about Ronon? What did you do with him?”

With a raise of Ziffka's hand, the Jad waited. “Your big friend is already dead. He fought against the bandits we hired, and his leg was injured. They took him to the Shan'ka to be claimed, bringing you here for your punishment.”

“He's dead?” John's voice was a whisper. No way was Ronon dead. Not when he was healing, not when he'd showed John his mistakes. If anyone was going to survive this hellhole, it was going to be his friend. “No,” he muttered.

“Funny. The reason you originally came to us was for him. Pity. Such a waste. But thank you for the wonderful knife.”

Staring at Ronon's blade in a stranger's hands injured John more than anything these morons could do to him physically. “You're too dumb to appreciate the art of that weapon.”

“Remove his goggles.”

John closed his eyes and didn't have to wait long. The first blows rearranged his jaw, the ones after that gave him whiplash. The hornets were gone, replaced by white noise, a single hiss breaking through in his left ear. 

“Pullo was my friend. I'm glad yours is dead.”

Something jabbed John in the small of back. Not a fist, maybe the end of a knife handle. It was a stunning blow, sending pain all the way down his spine. After the third time, his back was a mass of agony.

Like the balick matches, this was a release of pressure and rage and he was the object once again. Two, three, four fists punched him at once, smashing his face so hard and fast, he thought they'd knocked his head right off his shoulders. A copper taste filled his mouth, his ears rang.

When he could no longer feel his face except the warm blood that dripped down his chin, they pounded away at the rest of him, and he lost his ability to breathe, his mid-section caving in. 

By then he'd stopped caring. 

They pummeled him until the goons could no longer hold him up. Then they stomped on him when he fell, not even sparing his arms and legs. Something heavy ground his right hand into the dirt and he heard the cracking of bones and still John didn't care. 

He'd failed Ronon. Failed as a military officer. Failed as a human being. 

Time as always went on forever. They were done with him it seemed, rolling him onto his back, his body having gone numb a while ago. Fingers pulled off John's keffiyeh and removed his socks and boots. 

“Keep his clothes on. Can't let it be too obvious, but it'll help things along.” 

There was the distinct sound of footfalls followed by lingering silence. John closed his eyes against the blaring sun, unable and unwilling to move onto his stomach. 

Let it finish him off. 

He wished for a single bullet, but maybe that was too good, too forgiving. Part of him, deep inside, a fading voice ordered him up, to find shadow, to fight. But it was weak, a whisper in the overwhelming din in his head. Moisture welled up in the corners of his eyes, and John allowed the tears to fall. Not for himself, but for Ronon. Hoping his last act expressed the honor and grief for letting down his friend.

* * *

“How much longer?”

“Til Visser and the others return.”

“Why do we hafta wait?”

“Ya think the two of us can carry this guy? We'll get our payment then see what Visser wants to do.”

Ronon remained deathly still, locating his enemies by voice, testing the strength of the bindings around his wrists. His hands were tied behind his back and based on the position of the conversation going on, his kidnappers were in front of him. Opening his eyelids to razor-thin slits, he allowed his pupils to acclimate to the sunlight, verifying his situation, searching for Sheppard. 

“What if the Shan'ka find out we were involved with the other one's death?”

“Shudup! Don't talk about it. All we did was knock out two people with the topra the Jad gave us. What Ziffka does with his enemy is his business. Our hands are clean.”

No!

Ronon struggled to quash the scream built up in his lungs and did everything in his power to keep still. John wasn't dead. Not now, not after they'd been through all this. Not until Ronon saw his friend's body with his own eyes. 

Ronon tested muscles without giving it away; being held prisoner countless times had taught him well. Rubbing his wrists against the rough surface below caused friction that quickly sawed through the fibrous twine. He purposely let out a small moan and his two targets scrambled over.

“He waking up?” a voice questioned, bending over.

“You asking me?”

Ronon lashed out with his good leg, boot connecting with bone and muscle. There was a yelp and he lunged, sending his fist into the startled face above him. He knocked the guy out and struggled to stand. The other bandit was too busy clutching his shin to react when Ronon grabbed him by his shoulder and planted a fist into his gut. His foe writhed on the ground and Ronon searched with hooded eyes for his cane. Luckily it was perched atop a small boulder and he hobbled on limbs with little circulation, grabbing the precious aid.

Using it more than he wanted, Ronon limped over to the piece of _drenk_ flailing about, and pressed his cane into the man's chest. “Stop crying and listen.” When that didn't have the desired effect, he brought it down on the guy's wrist.

“Ahhhh, please stop!”

“Pay attention,” Ronon ordered. 

Whimpering, the man took several rapid calming breaths. 

Satisfied he had his attention, Ronon went on. “Where are my goggles?”

There was a groan and more thrashing about and Ronon brought the cane down on a knee. “Answer me.”

“Here, ya tok!” The guy dug through layers of frayed robe and tossed them to the ground. 

Watching his enemy, Ronon snagged the eye gear, backed up a step, and slid them on with one quick motion. With a visual check on the other unconscious thug, he loomed over his prey. “You'll answer my questions. If I have to repeat myself, I'll start breaking bones.”

The bandit held his wrist close, satisfied to sit on the ground under the shade of rock. He was a young, scrawny thing with a pointed, narrow chin. “Okay.”

“Where's my friend?”

“My pals took him to the Jad.”

“Where?”

“I can't say.”

Ronon slammed the cane onto the other knee and the bandit screamed. “I don't know how to tell you!”

Thinking, Ronon scanned the newly formed landscape. “Can you show me?”

“Yes.”

The other goon came to with a curse, his head-wrap unrolling to reveal knotty blond hair streaked with dirt, and he rolled over to snarl at his pal. “You idiot!” he hissed with a slight whistle from two missing front teeth.

Ronon thought about knocking the guy out, but he might need them both. “How many took my friend?”

“Don't tell him anything, Limbu.”

Not wanting to drag either of them across the desert, Ronon backhanded the loudmouth who fell silent. “Do I have to repeat myself?” 

“There are four!” Limbu yelled. “We're the ones who got you from behind, but the others needed to take turns carrying your friend. Visser didn't want them to waste energy.”

That actually made sense. “What about me?”

“We don't know, but we couldn't move both of ya.”

“You're going to take me to him.”

Limbu looked to his pal, who shook his head in disgust. “I... We could, but if the Jad...I mean...”

“You're alive now. If you don't do what I say, I'll kill you.”

“Murder's against the law,” Limbu's pal argued.

Ronon swung the cane menacingly, the stick making an ominous swooshing noise. “I don't care about dying. You're going to take me or I'll bash your brains in.” 

Both men gingerly stood up, eying him in unease.

“Hand over the water you stole.”

“Visser has your packs,” Limbu said, testing out his knee.

“Then give me yours,” Ronon demanded and gestured at Loud Mouth's. “You can share his.”

He took a swallow to rinse away the animal that died in his mouth then secured the dunka pouch. “You got more rope?” 

“Yes,” Loud Mouth replied with that odd whistle-lisp.

Ronon stepped close, cane raised to strike, and Loud Mouth fumbled with a thin length a few meters long.

“Tie your hands together in front of you with one end.” Turning to face the more submissive Limbu, Ronon gestured at his wrists. “When he's done, take the other part and tie up your hands.”

The bindings were worn and weak, but they'd give Ronon a few seconds notice if either foe tried anything. The two bandits would be chained to one another and Ronon planned to keep them in check the entire time. Once they were done, Ronon gestured ahead, prepared to walk until his legs collapsed.

“Do something stupid and I'll fuck you up,” Ronon said, repeating his favorite earth phrase, secretly wishing they'd give him the excuse.

* * *

Memorizing patterns of sand, Ronon plotted their hike, thinking how the wind deposited dirt and sculpted out the terrain like brush strokes and fingers of a potter. He studied the results in order to find his way back. His prisoners didn't speak and he kept them on a short leash, knowing they could be leading him into a trap. A rendezvous point wouldn't be far to keep from expending energy, but it'd be just far enough away from prying eyes.

Newly crested ridges provided bits of shade and they walked under them, every crook and fold a possible ambush. Coasting the upcoming curve, Ronon spotted four figures in the distance. “Stop.”

“Why?” Loud Mouth hissed, bending at his knees. “This is what ya wanted.”

“Let them come to us.” When both men kept walking, Ronon whacked Loud Mouth behind his kneecaps. “I said, wait till they get closer.”

“What are ya gonna do? We outnumber you,” Loud Mouth taunted while trying to stand.

Ronon let the guy waste air, biding his time, watching for extra numbers. Only the four approached, their pace slowing as they closed the distance. “Move very slowly.”

Both men obeyed and Ronon stayed behind them, anticipating, planning. “Wave at them.”

The four other bandits went from blobs to human figures, close enough to see the ploy, to be solicitous in their movements. Ambush or not, there was no place to run. Keeping his quarry only steps away, the other players in the game spread out in a half circle.

“Wasn't our prisoner supposed to be wearing the rope?” the leader inquired.

“He surprised us,” was Loud Mouth's reply.

Ronon wasn't in the mood to screw around. “You Visser?”

“I am.” Visser unwrapped a cloth of jumbled scraps, revealing an older, scarred face, shorn dark hair, and an obscenely large forehead. “And you are?”

“Doesn't matter.” Ronon studied the three taking a few steps closer but waiting for a signal from their leader. “You're going to take me to my friend.”

“Are we?” With a nasal laugh, Visser gestured at his crew. “Six against one?”

Limbu and his buddy turned around to form a single line, bony fingers working on the ropes. Fronts were vulnerable with weak spots, especially when the men were not lined up perfectly.

Ronon struck Limbu across the head, catching his buddy on the back swing. Both men crumpled and in two seconds he'd evened the odds.

Puffing out his chest, he got into an attack position. “Now it's four.” Even after weeks of shedding weight and muscle tone, he was still taller, stronger, and more imposing than any of these fools combined. “I'll allow you to keep most of the water you stole. Even let all your men go free. But you're going to take me to my friend.”

“Your friend is dead; no way I'm wasting my time,” Visser said with a dismissive gesture. “I'm sure Ziffka's had his fun by now.” With a sleazy chuckle, he added. “Or maybe your friend's on his knees, begging for mercy. Willing to --”

Visser's throat crushed like any other, windpipe snapping along with his neck. By the time his body dropped to the ground, the others ran for their lives, and Ronon snagged a rock and threw it, the stone knocking the nearest bandit off his feet. 

His body vibrated with raw hate, a hungry kind of energy, the type that allowed him to kill without thought, to see through a person, uncorked and boiling over into the very fingers that lifted up the dazed man before him.

He could squeeze this guy's head hard enough to make both eyes pop out and enjoy it. But that wasn't his mission, so Ronon shook the piece of garbage by the shoulders. “Take me now. Or I'll remove your skin.”

“Okay, just don't kill me,” the man pleaded.

Ronon dropped him; the man crumpled to the dirt, wiping the red smear from his temple. It took Teyla's face and the distant noise of McKay's nattering to crush the desire to spill more blood. “Move.”

The man stumbled, letting out a cry, and picked himself back up, wrapping his robe tightly around a frame of bone. Ronon saw nothing beyond the layers of old cloth and gave this animal no quarter, granting him only life until he led him to Sheppard.

* * *

“We're wastin' energy,” the bandit wheezed.

Ronon said nothing, eyes and ears like radar picking apart the land. 

“I told ya. We met the Jad over by the rocks that formed this arch.” The prisoner stopped, wavering on his feet. “My head's killing me.”

Tons of practice fine-tuned Ronon's filters for white noise. Constant wind ate away most track marks, scattering footprints into nothing, but not completely. Not enough to hide all its secrets. There'd been twelve or more people, steps on top of steps, arriving and leaving as a group. There was no burying a body out here, no dumping it under shelter for others to stumble upon. No, Sheppard was out there, in any multitude of directions. 

He followed a path away from the settlement, where no one would bother going. His leg was being gnawed on by a set of invisible jaws, the cane a part of his healing bone and it didn't matter if the drenk saw his dependency. His body quivered with promised violence and the bandit didn't dare test Ronon's wrath.

At four hundred paces, his heart surged through his chest and he ran, snagging the bandit by the robe. 

“Hey! Stop!”

But Ronon bodily dragged his only source of labor with him, blood thrumming in his ears. “John!”  
He tossed the bandit aside and dropped to his knees next to the lifeless body. Sheppard was curled on his side, an arm draped over his unprotected eyes. Ronon's hands shook as they touched Sheppard's throat, his head spinning at finding the weak, racing pulse beneath his fingertips. “You stayed alive,” he whispered.

He tugged his goggles down, squinting against the glare. Once his eyes adjusted, it was like gas to the fire raging in his belly. A noise escaped in the back of his throat at how bad they'd beaten him, bruised flesh nothing but dried paper wrapped around a body abandoned to wither under the sun. He cradled Sheppard's head against his thigh and dripped water from his dunka over a set of parched lips. 

“Yer wastin' it,” the bandit complained. “If you really cared, you'd kill him.”

Refusing to squander his breath, Ronon continued dribbling the liquid. Sheppard swallowed some of it, although he was mostly, thankfully unconscious. “Give me your dunka pouch,” Ronon demanded of the bandit who defied him with silence. “Hand it over!”

Ronon took the pouch and poured a little water over Sheppard's face and neck, the skin bright red, his chest flushed pink from the slit of his robe. The only thing he could do was get Sheppard to the cave where it was cool and they had any real amount of water. He did a quick check for open wounds, and was left with little choice but to move him without knowing the extent of his injuries. 

“You're going to carry him,” Ronon told the bandit.

“What?”

Ronon couldn't hold Sheppard's weight the whole time. “Do it or die.”

The bandit had no choice and Ronon instructed him in the fireman's carry that would jar Sheppard the least and allow a weak person to handle the weight for a small amount of time. “You do anything to hurt him, and I promise your last hours will be pain-filled.”

It was agony entrusting his charge to another, but the bandit lifted Sheppard and Ronon adjusted the robe to protect any exposed skin. Ripping the bottom part of his clothes with his teeth, Ronon soaked a piece of fabric with water and wrapped it around Sheppard's neck. Then he tore another swatch and with a bit of rope, covered Sheppard's head to control heat. 

“Let's go.”

* * *

It didn't take long to return to the rock formation a few minutes later, the bandit dropping to his knees, gasping for air. Ronon lifted Sheppard and sat under the shade, allowing his friend's head to loll on his lap. The bandit, Ronon refused to give him a name, was a limp practice dummy sprawled out on his back. Knowing his beast of burden wouldn't be running away, Ronon tried coaxing more sips of water into Sheppard.

“John.” Removing the cloth from his battered face, he tried again. “Sheppard, can you hear me, buddy?”

Nothing. With careful balancing, he poured more water from the container to the dunka pouch and dribbled it onto Sheppard's face and torso. He squeezed a few drops along the corners of Sheppard's mouth where the colonel semiconsciously licked his split lips. Sheppard was a mess. Two black eyes framed a battered face surrounded by contusions, a swollen jaw, and a right hand that had ballooned to twice its size. They had to get away from the sun, but Sheppard needed the shade and the bandit time to recover. 

Ronon sipped more water and re-soaked the homemade bandana around Sheppard's neck to help cool him. When the bandit started to moan and bitch, Ronon knew it was the best time to head out again.

* * *

Visser's corpse was stripped of all his clothes when they passed and it was a strange not to see insects or animals picking at the leftover bones. The bandit bowed in the face of adversity, his back unable to maintain Sheppard's weight, swaying and nearly falling. Ronon threatened and cursed, gave a shoulder to balance them all, both pairs of legs supporting a third. By the time they reached the water tanker site, Ronon took over his burden to bear.

“Leave,” he ordered. The bandit made all kinds of raspy breathing noises and all Ronon wanted to do was make them stop with his fists. “I said, go!”

He took a moment to recharge one last time, cooling Sheppard's skin with water, re-wetting the cloth and carefully wrapping it around the fluttering pulse points. “Almost home,” he told his friend, hiking him over his back and setting off on a leg that could not bend.

Each step was a spike through his heel, up his femur, and into the small of his back. Heat radiated from Sheppard and into Ronon, leaching every drop of water out of his skin. Dark spots clouded his vision, joining an imaginary pool of blues and greens sparkling far ahead. He lost the count toward home, starting and stopping again. 

Was it three hundred or four hundred and seven steps left?

Snarling, he imagined the most vicious, vile ways to crush and break any Jad he came across to power him on. When that failed, and his knees wobbled and his tongue swelled, he imagined the Saurin, memorized Dumma's face and the last time he saw the man responsible for his and Sheppard's imprisonment.

* * *

_Ronon allowed Dumma and the Saurin security force to escort him and Sheppard into some lab, his hand itchy over the blaster they'd foolishly let him keep. Men and women in blue coats were hunched over control consoles and computers, the wall aligned with dozens of screens, codes and science stuff scrolling down them in dizzying speed._

_“These are our finest scientists, interpreting all our data and searching for breakthroughs.” Dumma beamed._

_Sheppard scanned the monitors, unimpressed. “Kind of hard to read when it's on fast-forward.”_

_“That's because you don't have the proper interface.” Dumma stood before a slender woman seated in front of five smaller screens and pulled back her thick strands of blond hair, displaying a set of noodles sticking out of her temples. “She has a direct connection to the system, a piece of technology gained from another of our allies.” He grinned. “All our knowledge is stored right here for only our brightest minds.”_

_Ronon thought she looked like Fran, eyes unblinking at her work._

_“What, no servers?”_

_Dumma glared at Sheppard like he was the dirt under his nails. “Why would we risk access to just anyone? There is always someone analyzing, someone working on enhancing our great people.”_

_“Fascinating,” Sheppard mumbled._

_Dumma didn't understand the sarcasm and his smile widened. “Understanding the complexity of Wraith physiology requires only the brightest minds. In just the last cycle we've mapped their neurological pathways, identifying which parts of the brain control mental abilities and how they interpret sensory information. And just recently we had a major breakthrough in cellular repair.”_

_“And the Wraith? Why haven't they culled you yet?” Sheppard asked._

_“Because they have no idea we existed. We stay hidden until we want to be found. Like we did, when our sensors spotted your first ship in orbit.” Dumma held his head high. “You'd be surprised how many other races are out there. Biding their time for the right moment.”_

_Ronon didn't care about words and presentations when they were being held and separated from the rest of their people. Sheppard hid his emotions behind his normal, relaxed facade, but the lines of tension were there._

_“Ah, but you are military men. Who cares about this stuff? You are results oriented.” Dumma urged them onward, unable to keep his hands still. “You will love this.”_

_The guards closed in and Ronon and Sheppard were forced down halls, away from darkened guarded areas, and funneled toward another lab of sorts, this one made of all thick glass._

_“This is one of many observations rooms.”_

_It was like the Atlantis gym, men and women ran around a track, jumping hurdles, climbing over walls, swinging on ropes. The only difference was the people in blue coats observing them around more computer screens._

_“Looks like a strenuous workout,” Sheppard dead-panned._

_“They started these laps when we met for breakfast today,” Dumma said with that same smug expression._

_Breakfast had been six hours ago._

_“Nonstop?” Ronon couldn't help asking._

_“Yes.” Dumma clapped Sheppard on the back. “This way.”_

_“So, you learned how to harvest the Wraith enzyme? If all those people get regular injections I'm sure you're aware that withdrawal is a bitch,” Sheppard mocked._

_Dumma's steps increased in annoyance. “All the enzyme does is keep a victim alive so the Wraith may feed. It has nothing to do with the advanced physiology of their central nervous system. We've isolated what controls the increase of hormone and neurotransmitters in their blood cells and have applied it our citizens.”_

_“You injected Wraith DNA cocktails into your people to make them stronger?” Sheppard stopped. “Gave them Wraith steroids?”_

_“I am unfamiliar with some of your words, but we have successfully sequenced part of the Wraith genetic code with our own.”_

_Sheppard shot Ronon a look of absolute horror and schooled it quickly. He gestured to keep following, to gather the needed recon. Dumma was oblivious to their revulsion, walking down the hall unaware that Sheppard had wandered toward a small corner window. Ronon followed behind him, their security escorts looking to one another as to what to do._

_“What is it?” Ronon whispered._

_“I don't know,” Sheppard replied, peering into the low-lit room._

_Ronon scanned inside, noting the outlines of a man rocking in the middle. Sheppard placed his hand on the thick glass and the figure lunged, fists smacking the window. There was a flash of teeth and yellow eyes. Sheppard jumped back when the man hurled himself against the window, over and over and over again._

_Ronon pulled his blaster and there were hands pulling them both away, Dumma's voice nattering above the ruckus. “That observation room was off-limits.”_

_“Why? That where you store the failures?” Sheppard snarled, shaking off the guards._

_“Not all research has a hundred percent success rate; ask your head scientist,” Dumma retorted, smoothing his shirt. “Now, come with me.” The politician nodded at security, who formed a tighter circle around them._

_Sheppard gestured at Ronon's weapon and he holstered it unhappily and followed behind. This time they stopped in front of a small room similar to the infirmary. There was a man on a gurney with wires and tubes snaking under a thin white gown, which was nothing new with sick people. Except this person was restrained by his legs and chest, his right arm strapped to a metal table in front of him with some doctor talking to him._

_“Here we are,” Dumma said, tapping a button on the wall. “We have important guests, Dr. Uruh Do you think you could conduct your trial now?”_

_Ronon paid half attention to the chatter between the two, searching for an exit point, determining the locations of the security force only meters away. It wasn't until Sheppard stiffened, his hand nearly drawing his weapon, that Ronon was alert to the situation._

_“You're going to cut this guy's fingers off?” Sheppard yelled, outraged._

_“Why, yes. To see our progress in tissue regeneration. The experiment is voluntary,” Dumma explained._

_“Is that why your patient is shackled to the bed?”_

_“There are always unexpected consequences to any procedure, Colonel.”_

_Before Sheppard could respond, the doctor pulled out a metal instrument that fired a small laser. He severed all five fingers with a single stoke, the man's mouth wide open in silent scream behind the glass. Dumma hastily spoke during the experiment. “I promise his hand is numb. He can't feel a thing.”_

_“But he's awake to see it,” Ronon snarled._

_“We must monitor all biological reactions; the subject cannot be unconscious for accurate results,” Dumma retorted with a wave of his hand._

_“Subject? Thought he was a volunteer?” Sheppard stepped closer to the window._

_Dumma pointed at the monitor focused on the operation. “Yes, of course, and our volunteer's fingers are already regenerating. As you can tell, it took only minutes for the cells to reproduce themselves.”_

_“How many times did people’s fingers not re-grow?”_

_Dumma ignored Sheppard's question and motioned the guards to guide them away. “I want to show you our reason for our alliance.”_

_“How long have you've been conducting these experiments?” Sheppard asked._

_“Research. For thousands of cycles.”_

_“That's a long time on a single project.”_

_“This is the most significant research ever conducted, Colonel Sheppard. Don't you see the potential? Soldiers with the strength of a Wraith. Physically superior to any enemy, able to heal from wounds. Once we've mastered the mental component, we'll have an army under the direct command of its commanders.” Dumma glanced at Sheppard. “We've heard you work closely with a people who have a version of this ability already. Could you imagine the leaps we could make if we could map out their genomes?”_

_Ronon growled, and Sheppard placed a restraining hand on his shoulder as they were corralled to the far end of the hallway._

_Dumma paused by the doors. “I'm about to share with you our most precious resource. As an act of good faith.”_

_They entered another observation level; a large bay window overlooked an expansive room below filled with stasis pods similar to those in Atlantis. Ronon counted rows upon rows that disappeared into the depths._

_“This is our cloning and housing facility. It is the key to our research and our largest need of assistance,” Dumma admitted._

_“Cloning facility? All those pods. They're filled with clones?” Sheppard asked, unable to cover his shock._

_“Yes.”_

_Sheppard spun to face Dumma. “How many?”_

_“Thousands.”_

_“You experiment on them?” Ronon snarled._

_Dumma looked at both of them perplexed. “We insert altered DNA into their cells to test our advancement. It is the only way.”_

_“Without their permission,” Sheppard snapped._

_“Permission?” Dumma shook his head in irritation. “They have no free will. We use copies of our citizens to further advances for our people.”_

_Sheppard's face was a chiseled mask. “And what is it that you need from us?”_

_“Your Wraith research. The data conducted in your city and from information taken from the one called Michael. Do not deny it; we have many sources that say this information is accurate. Not only could your data advance our own research, but it could solve the deterioration rate in our cloned subjects. We are experiencing too many molecular defects from duplicating them over the cycles and they are unable to provide us with accurate responses when their DNA is corrupted.”_

_“Don't you...just you know. Get new DNA from...” Sheppard clamped his jaw shut, unwilling to finish his sentence._

_“We have already extracted DNA from our children and from their future children. Our population is small and hard to regrow. No, we need more raw sources. We cannot accept any from inferior stock.”_

_Sheppard stared out at the stasis pods, hands fisted at his sides, voice ice. “I don't think my people would agree to help with your breeding program.”_

_“But you must,” Dumma insisted, grabbing Sheppard's arm._

_Sheppard jerked out of the man's grasp. “Sounds like you've made plenty of progress in other areas without our help.”_

_“No!” Dumma shouted. “We're so close to filling the gaps from hundreds of thousands of cycles of lost research. Hundreds! Can you imagine losing that much work? The older ones were cycles beyond us and we've just begun to touch what was destroyed.”_

_“What was destroyed?” Sheppard asked._

_“Nothing,” Dumma said, straightening. “Your people might hold the key to what we're missing. Without your help, more and more Saurin patriots will sacrifice themselves to the cause.”_

_“What patriots?” Ronon questioned, wanting nothing more than to tear the place apart._

_“As I said, our clones are no longer viable. We've started converting this area to house volunteers so our work may continue without loss of time.”_

_“Volunteers? Like the man whose fingers were cut off? Your subject?” Sheppard snapped. “How many? How many of your people do you plan to turn into patriots?”_

_Dumma stood defiantly. “However many it takes.”_

* * *

Ronon almost lost himself in the memories; that day on the Saurin home world added to times as a runner, or endless nights in a cave. 

Their cave! Had he already walked that far?

It had to be one of those mirage things, a trick of the eye, to be replaced by sand. Except there was really rock in front of him, the mouth of their home steps away, the beckoning of darkness he'd come to despise. No sooner did he allow himself a second's reprieve than the scent of old metal set him on alert. 

“Malvick?” Ronon questioned the air, unsure if he wanted a reply.

“What have you two done?”

Ronon blinked and Malvick was there, a phantom of power and control.

“I...” Ronon's thoughts abandoned him in a crossfire of wills. “I need help.” He bit off the foul-tasting words.

“Help? I'm not sure I know the meaning.” 

But once again Malvick's words contradicted his actions and he helped ease Sheppard to the ground before Ronon toppled over. “We...we need to get him inside.”

“Why? You want to bury him there?”

Ronon clutched Malvick's wrist, bending the man's hand away from Sheppard. “If you don't want to help, then leave.”

“If I'm helping, you're listening. And when I say listen, I mean do what you're told.” Malvick broke from the hold with a simple twist, pulling back Sheppard's robe, massive hands ghosting over his battered body. “If you pray to any gods, you might want to talk to them.”

Again, despite what was said, Malvick ripped the robe all the way down. “Hand me your container.” Ronon gave him the satchel and Malvick shook it in disgust. “A quarter full ain't gonna cut it.” He poured the contents over Sheppard's chest and soaked his hair. “If you got anything to drink, do it. Got a long walk ahead.”

“We're not moving him anymore. He might have--”

“This isn't a discussion. If you’d looked, you would’ve seen the search party heading this way.”

Ronon stared out at the desert behind him, noting the tiny dot formations. Damn it! He'd led the bastards right here.

“Guess you did something you shouldn't have.”

He'd screwed up, but Ronon would have to pay for that later. “We've got supplies in the cave--”

“Then get 'em. But don't overload yourself.”

Ronon almost didn't, caught between a tug of war of fear, allowing one to dominate the other. He fumbled inside, grabbing a full container of water, stuffing dried roots, a small thing of burning oil and soap flakes in another small satchel. He flung the heavy pack over his back; the other lighter one swung from his shoulder. As soon as he popped out of the cave, it was go-time. 

Malvick effortlessly picked up Sheppard in a fireman's carry without the need of instructions. He didn't wait for him, and Ronon dug deep in his reserves to find a way to keep up. To follow the demon into his lair. 

Where everyone else was too afraid to go.

* * *

The path into parts unknown was on a constant incline under cliffs and sheer walls and twists and turns. Even with his skills, Ronon was sure it would have taken him a long time to have located the barely noticeable opening that lead through the mountain. With the sun partially hidden by rock, the wind blowing across his face was cooler, not cold, lacking the brittle dry bite of the desert. His brain was frozen by the new pallet of grays, speckled blacks, and brown minerals.

Ronon used every handhold and piece of jutting rocky shelf to keep himself up, push his body forward and support what wasn't meant to handle distance this soon. Malvick never spoke or turned to monitor his progress, which was fine; Sheppard's body draped over the man's back was all the motivation needed to keep up. The Void had neither monster nor spirit hunting them and nothing pinged on his radar, only emptiness. Despite the absence of predators, there was a lingering odor of death. Stale blood, rotted flesh underneath the soil, and the telltale hints of seared metal.

Rugged terrain tempered to flat spreads of rock framed by even higher peaks and summits that disappeared into clouds of heavy gray mist. Ronon's skin had peeled and burned dozens of times over and eagerly soaked up the newfound dampness in the air. While the desert had been an endless swatch of bright white, the Void was a slow descent into monochromes of every shade. It was like time and distance tripled, and with growing darkness came dropping temperatures. They couldn't have gone more steps than the settlement, yet the difference in the environment was profound.

Drawing air into his lungs, he recognized the sweet aesthesis of moisture, eyes enlarging at the small pool of liquid meters away. Giving his head a shake didn't dispel the illusion and Malvick stood before the glistening beauty of gallons and gallons of heavenly water.

“Is that--?” Ronon's throat got stuck, his head dizzy with fatigue and wonder.

“Best way to beat heat sickness is to cool down,” Malvick explained, wading into the shallow pool.

Dropping his supplies at the edge of the drink, Ronon rushed in, cutting in front of Malvick. “He's my responsibility.”

“Is that so? He save your life or did you save his?”

“Both,” Ronon replied, reaching for his CO.

Malvick handed over Sheppard and Ronon shed his friend's tangle of robe and laid him in the shallow end, propping him on a natural shelf of rock. Ronon slid his lower body into the water, propping his friend on his chest, securing Sheppard's head and neck above the surface. “Hand me some water,” he said, ignoring the pry for information.

“Going to drown his lungs?” Malvick drawled, giving him a dunka.

Emerging the body in cooler temperatures only accomplished so much. Ronon needed Sheppard to take in fluids and hoped the water would jar him awake. “John. Come on, drink some of this.”

Sheppard didn't stir and Ronon removed his goggles, getting a clearer view of the damage. Most of the Jad had been right handed based on the amount of black and blue on one side of Sheppard's face. “This water drinkable?” he asked the man shadowing them.

“Yep.”

Ronon took a long gulp of the precious liquid and poured the rest over Sheppard's face and watched the erratic rise and fall of his chest. Even under water, the dark bruising peppered his torso and abdomen. “Sheppard, wake up,” he encouraged, refilling the dunka pouch and pouring it over his CO's hair. “You can sleep later. Do you want me to tell McKay I gave you a bath?” Then he dipped down to his friend's ear and whispered, “Don't leave me alone out here. Fight, John.”

Nothing. Sheppard ignored him, like he'd been ignoring him for days if not weeks, closed off in his thick shell. Ronon wouldn't quit and continued showering water for what seemed like hours, the dark red flush fading to pink, unveiling more and more purple knuckled-shaped patterns. 

Finally Sheppard's left eye fluttered open, his right one swelled shut, and he stared up in a daze. “Wh'a?”

“Take it easy,” Ronon said.

But Sheppard was Sheppard, responding the complete opposite, and went from limp to coiled, bolting up with a wheezing gasp, immediately slumping, hands curled into Ronon's arms in desperation. 

“Easy, don't thrash.” Wrapping an arm around Sheppard's shoulders, Ronon held him still. “John!”

“R'no?” Sheppard slurred, complexion blanching.

“Yeah, buddy.”

“No,” Sheppard panted. ”No.” And he squeezed his one eye shut, face screwed up in pain. 

“John, look at me,” Ronon ordered, but Sheppard's body spasmed and Ronon lifted him out of the water to dry heave on the rocks. He held him until the cramps ended and Sheppard went slack again. “John?”

“It's the heat sickness,” Malvick commented from the sidelines. “Get him back in the water. It's the only way to cool him down before his blood turns to sludge.”

Ronon dunked Sheppard's body in the pool, before easing him onto the ledge again, the two of them leaning back against the slate. “Please John, drink,” he begged, dribbling water on his friend's lips. This time he was rewarded by a few swallows in the mists of semiconsciousness. “There you go,” Ronon encouraged. 

He didn't mind languishing in the water until all his skin puckered into wrinkles, using one hand to slowly rid layers of soil and sweat, drenching his dreads, wishing for a blade to cut them at the roots. He coaxed water down Sheppard's throat whenever he could, until the brimming pulse beneath his finger slowed to something steadier and rosy pink hues faded to reveal more ugly contusions.

“There's shelter behind here. Good place to hole up for a while.”

Ronon momentarily had forgotten about Malvick; he'd become nothing but a backdrop. Lifting Sheppard out of the pond served to remind him of all his own aches and pains, his stockpiles beyond vapor. He followed Malvick's smooth strides under an overhanging of stone, the temperature comfortable under the shade. He placed Sheppard down, and plopped beside him, allowing his legs to stretch out, surrounded by open cool air beneath a dark sky. Malvick had gone somewhere and Ronon didn't really care, his limbs melting into the stone.

For this second, for this moment, there was no running, no fighting, no wanting to rip away his skin. 

“Ronon?” a harsh whisper came. 

“I'm here,” Ronon said in a hush, leaning over his friend. “Can you understand me?”

A slit of hazel peered in disbelief. “But...you're dead.”

“No, I'm not.”

“You're...just in my head...”

Ronon took Sheppard's uninjured hand and squeezed it. “This feel dead to you?”

Sheppard stared unbelieving and Ronon pressed his friend's fingers against the beating pulse below his tattoo. “Trust what you feel.”

Something broke and Sheppard weakly pulled Ronon closer, burying his face into his shoulder with a quiet sob. The sound broke Ronon's heart and he held onto his friend until the shudders ended and the reality of pain and injury took over. Sheppard's sob broke into a loud cry and Ronon lowered him flat on his back to keep him still.

“Sheppard, listen to me. Are you listening?” His friend tried to curl into a ball, but Ronon gently held him still. “John, don't. Moving will only make it worse.”

Sheppard responded by panting for breath, but that only exacerbated the pain and he squeezed his eye closed, slowing his gasps for air. “R'n,” he moaned.

“Yeah, buddy.”

“Oh, God...” Sheppard hiccupped. “Make it stop.”

Ronon fumed in helplessness, hands flat on his friend's shoulders. “Just breathe through it, Sheppard. Breathe slowly. In and out.”

Sheppard struggled, deep breaths, shallow breaths. Each expansion of his chest pulled on unknown broken bones and abused muscles. Behind every bruise had been multiple fists and shoes. 

“Close your eyes, John. Ride it out.”

Sheppard balled his fists, accidentally curling his busted hand. He screamed which erupted into a dry choke. Ronon eased Sheppard to his side as he dry heaved again. _Pass out, pass out,_ Ronon prayed, but Sheppard sagged in his arms, totally spent, and he rolled him onto his back.

“Shoulda...shoulda left me...out there,” Sheppard rasped.

“Don't say that!”

“I...got...got...what was coming.”

“You're sick; you don't know what you're talking about,” Ronon whispered, laying his hand on Sheppard's shoulder. 

“I failed… I…,” Sheppard uttered, tearing a hole in his bottom lip.

“No, you didn't!” Ronon yelled, wanting to shake him. “You hear me? You're stronger than them. You've never given up, John. Look at me. You're not going to give up on me. Not after all we've been through.”

Sheppard's eye puffed up. “I... I'm sorry... I gave up a long time ago.”

Ronon wouldn't listen and laid his head on Sheppard's shoulder, feeling like the one who had failed.

* * *

Ronon dreamed of rushing sand, grains abrading his eyes, filling his throat, sucking him into a bottomless pit. He woke with a start, resting a calming hand over his thundering heart, his eyes straying over to his friend. 

“John?”

Sheppard slowly craned his neck. “Hey.”

Ronon scooted over a few inches. “How long you been awake?”

It took a moment for Sheppard to answer, as if he had to think long and hard. “Don't know.”

Rolling his shoulders to loosen stiff muscles, Ronon popped his back and scraped the gunk out of his eyes, and found a full dunka pouch next to him. It'd been empty the night before and he wondered if they were being watched. Uncorking the pouch, he swished and swallowed the liquid. “You really should have some of this.” 

Sheppard contemplated the water, but his broken right hand lay on his thigh and his left hand was a permanent brace against his side. “Here.” Ronon supported Sheppard's head and neck, waiting for him to take his fill then resting it within reach. “You're gonna have to finish a few of these to replenish what you lost.” Scanning the immediate area, he noticed a larger container sitting in a new spot, knowing it, too, would be full. “We've got plenty. Don't worry about our supply.”

Closing his good eye, Sheppard took a steadying breath. “Status?”

“We're in the outlying area of the Void. Think about two klicks.” There was no point in lying about their situation. “After I found you, I got you to our cave. Malvick was there and he carried you to a pond. Got you cooled down.”

It was unnerving to be greeted by silence, Sheppard's quick mind stunted and slow. “ _The Void?_ And we're....okay?"

“Yeah, we're safe.”

Sheppard tried digging in his elbows to get a better view and settled for craning his neck, taking in his surroundings. “The Void,” he repeated. “Must still... be hallucinating.”

“No, you're not imagining things.” Ronon wanted to yank Sheppard out of the deep dark place he was trapped in but squeezed his shoulder instead, offering a rope to hold on to. “You're not out there anymore. I wouldn't have stopped searching.”

It never ceased to amaze Ronon how Sheppard's rules never seemed to apply to himself. But Ronon's words resonated and his friend seemed to pull himself together a little more. “Shouldn't we be dead or something?”

“There's no sign of any enemies or danger.”

“What...what about the Jad?”

No more holding back. “I killed one of them and was followed. Our cave's compromised and we can't return.” Sheppard stared vacantly, processing things. “We have water and shelter. And I was going to search for food.”

“Where's Malvick?”

Good question. Ronon had no clue. “Don't know. He'll be back.” Sheppard wasn't thrilled with that reply, but first things first. “I should check you for injuries.”

“Yeah. Give me a second.” Sheppard lay unmoving, preparing himself by controlling his breathing. “Okay... guess...we should get it over with.”

At some point Malvick had draped a thin blanket over Sheppard and Ronon pushed it away, revealing a badly sunburned chest covered by deep bruising. “Everything's gonna hurt. Just tell me about the really bad parts.”

Ronon wavered, but knew what was at stake. He palpated each rib, waiting for Sheppard's lungs to expand, feeling if the bones moved oddly, and noting the difference between hissed grunts and all-out cries of pain. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

He gently pressed around Sheppard's abdomen, searching for rigidness. Thankfully, it didn't show any signs of internal bleeding, though by the way Sheppard flinched, it was incredibly painful. Sheppard sweated profusely, his good hand clenched in a fist. Ronon checked both legs, noting the swelling down both limbs from being stomped and kicked and the bottoms of both feet were sunburned. Sheppard's pallor had gone from pale to milk white and Ronon gave him time to cope with the pain.

“What's...what's the verdict?”

Ronon wasn't a doctor, but the military was a good teacher and hanging out with Melena and in the Atlantis infirmary had rubbed off. “Think you have three broken ribs and the rest of you is really bruised and banged up.” His eyes strayed to Sheppard's hand. “Don't have any ideas how many fingers are broken.”

“All of 'em?”

Ronon didn't have anything to splint them with and he decided to leave well enough alone. He'd been in enough fights, endured persuasive measures for information to know how a beating could incapacitate a fully healthy person, let alone anyone in Sheppard's state. 

“John—”

“Don't want a pep talk.”

“I'm not gonna give you one.” Ronon stared at his friend and Sheppard looked away. “You don't share your burdens. Fine. But they're not always yours alone.” Sighing, he growled, “You think I'm a failure?” 

John looked up sharply. “What? No.”

“We've made the same choices.”

“No. We haven't.” And Sheppard was back to staring at the sky. 

Ronon studied the vast nothingness of dark gray, wondering if it concealed the stars. “If you'd been the one with a broken leg, I'd have done anything to help us survive.” Sheppard held himself stiffly, making no attempt to engage any further. “I killed one of the Jad. He was unarmed and I couldn’t have cared less. Now we can't return to the cave. Can't trade for water and food. What makes me better than you?”

But the conversation was over; Sheppard closed his eye, ending things with silence.

Words were not Ronon's thing and more than likely he'd mimic his CO's action if the roles were reversed. He remembered what it felt like when his team came for him on Sateda, or how they embraced him after being turned by the Wraith. As much as he’d hated himself, his family never allowed him to fall. 

He placed a hand on Sheppard's shoulder which stiffened, but Ronon gave it a light squeeze. “Going to see about finding dinner.”

“’kay.”

Sheppard didn't ask _how or where_ and Ronon wanted to kill the men responsible for silencing his friend's passion. “Give me a signal if you hear anything.”

There was no one within several klicks, but it put Sheppard in a fake position of importance. 

His leg protested the strain of standing and Ronon leaned on his cane as his entire limb shook with the effort. He got his blood pumping, scouting the surrounding rocky area, glancing skyward at the ominous blackness looming in the opposite horizon, eyes falling at the approaching figure.

Malvick was in his element on his turf; gone was the robe as he strolled over in a black shirt and pants, dropping a sackful of something at Ronon's boots. “This should take care of food for a while. I know you prefer roasted rodents, but thought you might want something that'd taste better.”

Ronon picked up the bag, surprised to find chunks of tough, shriveled meat. “There's game to hunt here?”

“If you know where to look.”

Stomach growling, Ronon tore into a piece with his teeth, but it was like chewing rotted wood.

“ It ain't fresh.” Malvick smiled. “Heating it makes it softer.” 

There wasn't any timber and Ronon had forgotten the flint rock and was in no mood for tests. “Got anything for a fire?”

“No.” Malvick took a seat across from him. “I have something better.” Rolling a pack off his shoulder, he pulled out a small black square that got hot from a set of heating coils. “Ta-da.”

“You get that around here?”

“Out further west.” Malvick carved the meat into strips and placed them over the heat and sprinkled a little water over it form a thin juice. “Got to save time where we can. We need to get a move on soon.” 

Ronon's body hummed with new adrenaline. “Why?”

“Because we're leaving Medena.”

Malvick was studying his reaction, but Ronon kept his voice steady. “How?”

“There's an Ancestor ring in the Void and your friend's going to activate it.”

Excitement, suspicion, anger, they bombarded Ronon with a series of punches. “There's a ring here!”

“Yep.”

“Does it work?”

The meat strips sizzled and Malvick flipped them over with his blade. “Not for me. Seen thousands of prisoners come and go. None with the ability to operate Ancestor tech. Until now.”

They were being played and Ronon was deciding how to use the heating plate as a weapon. “The ring doesn't work like that.”

“Don't you you think I haven't tried? Sometimes for cycles at a time!” Malvick growled. “It's different. The Saurin programmed this one to lock out anyone other than those of the Ancestors.”

“You've known about this all along,” Ronon accused.

Malvick's face was impassive, his tinted goggles a constant shield. “I suspected.”

Ronon's temper soared. “And you didn't do anything! Didn't tell us?”

“Do you think he would have left you in that cave? Not knowing if I was telling the truth?” Malvick challenged.

“Yes.” 

“You're a liar.” Malvick got into Ronon's face. “He'd die first. Try denying it.” 

Ronon met the challenge to his space, dreads nearly in Malvick's face. “That day outside the cave.” When Ronon was going to end things. “If you hadn't said anything, I would have been out of your way.”

Why save him? Why not strike at such a ripe opportunity?

Malvick wasn't quick with his answer, like he'd been caught in a deception. “I only had suspicions before. I didn't confirm his ability 'til later. Besides, he wasn't all right in the head. Who knows what he might have done.” 

“Then why'd you wait?”

There. A slight muscle tremor near the jaw line, then Malvick stemmed all emotion. “By the time you were mobile, the balick matches had started. Got to obey the rules.”

“Now who's lying?” Ronon demanded. “You live in the Void. Who cares about the Shan'ka and their laws?” Unless there was more to it. He studied the goggles still masking Malvick's eyes even in the dark, remembered his inhuman agility and speed. “You're one of them. Aren't you?”

Another facial twitch. “No. But I _am_ one of their rejects.”

Whose? The Saurin or Shan'ka? 

Malvick licked his fingers, gesturing at the charring meat. “You should eat up. We're not staying.”

All the questions bouncing inside Ronon's head thinned out to a single blaring alarm. “Why?”

“Another transport's due soon. We shouldn't be around when it arrives.”

“The prison ship. What threat does it pose?”

“A large one,” was Malvick's reply. “Gonna scout out the edge, see if your pals were brave or stupid enough to follow you in here. We'll head out when I get back.”

Ronon was on his feet. “We can't move Sheppard yet.”

“This ain't a discussion.”

“No. It's not.” Ronon stood firm, matching Malvick's hostile posture. “There's no way he can walk. And you're not hauling him over your back. Not with his injuries.”

“That didn't seem to stop you earlier.”

“He would have died if we hadn't gotten him cooled down,” Ronon argued, not mentioning that being unconscious spared Sheppard pain.

“He'll be as good as dead if we stay.”

“Tell me why!”

“When I get back, we're leaving,” Malvick declared, dodging the question. 

Ronon said all he was going to, staring defiantly. Malvick's body visibly thrummed with tension. “The last I checked your buddy wasn't in good shape. I'm not going to watch the key to escaping this pit die in front of my face. Not when I've allowed myself to believe in something again.”

Malvick turned his back on Ronon, leaving him to battle a storm of unanswered questions and danger. He needed time to think and formulate a plan. Malvick's threat was unspoken. Grabbing the knife from the last slice of meat, Ronon mentally prepared himself for killing the one person who could possibly take them home.

* * *

John took in the sounds of his new environment, a dead shroud of nothing punctuated by his own raspy breaths. They were stuck in unknown terrain with him flat out on his back, their only source of intel the very devil who prowled its lands. And if he'd learned anything, it was to look for the knife to the back, and Malvick had dozens of sharp ones.

He swallowed, his jaw a set of crunching rocks with a mule constantly kicking him in the middle of his back. He was on surveillance, but his brain had ideas of going into stand-by mode. The Void terrified the Jad and Spraza alike. Myth or fairytale, there were kernels of truth to all morality tales and the Shan'ka's demonstration of power had proven the locals' fears of them. 

But he'd been way off his game and hurt. God, he hurt so much. And he kept thinking about all his mistakes, second guessing every one of his decisions. Finally his body won out, his ability to fight back depleted long ago, and the pain gobbled him up.

* * *

_John and Ronon sat in a small meeting room after the whirlwind tour of Mengele's lab, Dumma pacing in agitation like McKay on three pots of coffee. He'd dismissed the security team except for two guards, and John already had a plan to take them out if need be._

_“I do not understand. With our combined resources, we can harness the Wraith's greatest powers.” Dumma stabbed a finger at John. “Imagine controlling your ships from another room with your mind. Communicating with your troops. And you.” He stared at Ronon. “You're a fierce warrior. What if you could hear sounds for miles, see through any object, run at speeds of machines?”_

_“Wraith don't do that,” Ronon answered._

_Dumma slammed a hand on the table. “But we could! You think Atlantis is a technological marvel? Our cities were more splendid, bristled with more wonders than you could ever imagine!”_

_“ **Were?** And where are they?” John asked, because the Saurin city was half the size of Atlantis and he didn't see signs of a large population. _

_Flustered, Dumma stared at John and his head exploded with pain, words drilling into his brain. “You'll regret this, Colonel.” But Dumma's lips hadn't moved until they ticked into a cruel smile at John's discomfort from the mental invasion._

_Ronon looked between them and stood up, knocking his chair over. “Don't,” John hissed at his teammate, who sat down grudgingly. Shaking his head, he looked up. “Neat trick.”_

_“An inherited trait,” Dumma said, lifting his chin. “It's just the beginning of what we could accomplish for the good of our people.”_

_“You mean the ones you experiment on? All those locked in stasis pods? We won't help.” John waited to be hauled away, thrown in some prison, but Dumma picked the lint off his uniform._

_“Very well,” Dumma said and turned, speaking to someone on the radio. “Langurd, escort our guests to the ring. All of them. They are unwelcome.”_

_John's spidey sense was going nuclear and it must have shown, because Dumma blew out an annoyed breath. “Your people will be unharmed, Colonel. We are not barbarians. We are a civilized people searching for greatness.”_

_“I've heard that before,” was John's response, but he and Ronon were not being escorted away. ”Civilized, huh? With how many weapons?”_

_“Protection, Colonel. Nothing more. You're military. I merely appealed to that side of you.”_

_There didn't seem to be a lot of Saurin to make up a large fighting contingent. But that didn't mean anything. Atlantis proved that with their small, but well-armed units. “I want to talk to my---”_

_“Colonel Sheppard, this is Woolsey,” his radio squawked._

_Dumma waved a hand and John answered it. “I'm here.”_

_“I have just been pulled out of a meeting...in fact all of us have been gathered together in the Saurin control room. Is there a situation I should be aware of?”_

_“Are you safe?” John asked._

_He could hear Rodney's complaints over the radio and Woolsey talked over them. “Yes, Colonel. I take it you know more than we do?”_

_Based on Dumma's expression, John wasn't about to go into detail. “Unfortunately.”_

_“And are you accompanying us?”_

_“Mr. Woolsey, this is Dumma Morel. Colonel Sheppard and Ronon Dex will be following you shortly.”_

_“I'd like them to accompany us now,” Woolsey insisted._

_“In just a few minutes.”_

_John tensed, the silence crowding in on them._

_“ Colonel Sheppard, this is Teyla. Mr. Woolsey was told to dial out and all of our people have been forced back to Atlantis. I am the last to remain. Shall I...”_

_“Go, Teyla. I'll explain things when we get there,” John said. Teyla didn't use any distress signals, so their people had returned to Atlantis safely. He turned to their possible captor. “Now what?'_

_Dumma talked on his radio and finally looked up. “I must take my leave. I have pressing matters to attend to. Dr. Uruh will come in and wipe your memories of what you saw. A simple procedure for security reasons and you'll be on your way.”_

_“Memory wipe?” John questioned, not liking the sound of that._

_“Painless, I assure you. We are not a violent people, Colonel.”_

_“Not so sure about that,” John mumbled, looking at the weapons the guards carried._

_“Force is necessary at times, but we are above senseless bloodshed. Those seeking great knowledge do not stoop to the level of those obsessed with violence. It wastes energy. We merely seek out a greater path.”_

_John watched Dumma's exit and looked to Ronon who was practically vibrating in his seat. “Atlantis will never know about what's being done here.”_

_“I know,” John said, disgusted._

_“They'll continue their Wraith research. Maybe make it work.”_

_John followed Ronon's unspoken desire. “We can't--”_

_“They have thousands of clones!” Ronon growled. “Beckett is a clone.”_

_Not exactly the same thing, but John got it. Hell, he was just as pissed, but what could they do?  
“We can't take any action.”_

_“Why?” Ronon demanded._

_“There are rules.” John cringed at sounding exactly like those who never had their boots on the ground. “We can't go off half cocked.”_

_“Remember what happened last time people experimented on the Wraith?”_

_Ronon's words stung and John resisted the ploy. “I said no.”_

_“Millions died last time. I was right about trying to turn Wraith into humans and I'm right now. You going to listen to me this time?”_

_John wavered. “This is not a good idea.”_

_“They never disarmed us,” Ronon whispered._

_John still had C4 in his tac vest. “All their data is secured in a single area,” he said under his breath, realization dawning on him. Go commando; commit an act of war on another society. It was reckless and stupid._

_“We'd have the element of surprise,” Ronon said with a fake stretch as the guards eyed their private conversation._

_Ronon's gun could be set on stun. “You have the layout memorized?” John caught himself asking._

_“Yep.”_

_“I don't know, big guy.”_

_“We can't let them keep working. We have one shot at this.”_

_Everything screamed at John to stand his ground, but his hands patted down his vest. “This has to go down as one of my dumbest moves ever.”_

_“You don't have to come.”_

_John shot Ronon a look, rising to his feet, both guards getting antsy. “Got a plan?”_

_“No, but you'll think of one.”_

* * *

John jerked awake, memories of their impromptu sabotage sharp and noisy in his head. Gasping for air nearly tore him apart inside. He curled in around the pain, the movement stretching all his battered muscles. He longed for the ground to swallow him up and cursed his cowardice. He fell asleep when he was supposed to have been on watch. Opening his good eye, the world spun in blurry grays, every fiber of his being one gigantic spasm. Then it hit him. All the fists to his face and head, all the soft and hard leather smashing down on him. The boot grinding his fingers into the dirt with three methodical twists. 

He'd allowed the Jad to work him over, had welcomed the numbing blackness, wishing his internal fuse would have gone out. And during those few minutes of semi-consciousness, he'd lain there waiting for the sun to finish him off. 

_“Your friend is dead.”_

Rolling to his side, he searched for Ronon, his brain a block of Swiss cheese. Ronon wouldn't have given in like that. Now they were stranded in hostile territory, unable to flee because of John's mistake. His mouth was parched, his head dizzy from dehydration, and he reached for the dunka pouch with his left fingers. He groaned when his ribs moved, his tender muscles protesting with fireworks. But nothing could compete with the throbbing of his broken hand, the minutes ticking by like the tightening of a metal vise grating bones into nerves.

He was on his back again, riding the tsunami crashing into him, the dunka pouch shaking. Water dribbled out all over his face and he flailed to keep the pouch stable, accidentally knocking it over. He tried stopping it from spilling over the ground, reaching out with his busted fingers. “Fuck!” 

Squeezing his eye closed, crimson blossomed behind his lids and he banged his good hand into the ground again and again.

“Sheppard!”

Something grabbed his wrist and dreads scratched his face, red fading into Ronon's frantic eyes. “What are you doing?”

John ripped his arm away. “Nothing. I...” He gasped for breath, agony's fingertips clawing inside his chest. “Nothing,” he repeated. 

“Saying it doesn't make it true. I know.”

Reiterating it worked for John. It always had. 

“Nothing,” he whispered to no effect.

* * *

Ronon checked the heating plate and poked at the strip of frying meat, wondering how Malvick preserved it like that. Salt maybe? He needed to boil it into a stew that Sheppard could eat with his swollen jaw. They hadn't spoken since he found his CO--- _losing his shit?_ McKay's voice echoed in his head and he dismissed it, conjuring Teyla's quiet expression instead. He missed his friends' counsel and support. Their jokes and laughs, even the pointless disagreements. He placed the memories on a shelf inside his head; such platitudes were as damaging as they were joyous.

He went over to check on Sheppard. “You’re gonna have to sit up.”

Sheppard's one eye rolled around, studying the best way to get mobile and Ronon knelt down beside him. “Let me help.” His CO acquiesced and Ronon supported Sheppard's shoulders, slowly easing him into a sitting position. “Breathe,” he whispered at the shuddering gasps. 

Allowing Sheppard a moment to get acclimated, Ronon held him up by the arm pits. “Ready to scoot back?”

There was a slight nod and Ronon eased Sheppard the few inches to the wall, his friend panting from the effort, “M'good.”

Falling over sideways was a real possibility, so Ronon waited, and when Sheppard managed to stay upright for a few minutes, he brought over the pot of stew. Sheppard gave him this look, this _don't you dare feed me_ expression and Ronon settled at balancing the pot between Sheppard's knees.

Watching a friend struggle for independence was disrespectful;he turned his back, hackles rising at sensing a familiar return. His mind was in flux, allowing the moment to dictate his action, knife hidden under his robe. “Malvick's back,” Ronon announced, causing Sheppard to pause mid-sip. “Gonna see if he's ready to share some answers.”

Ronon failed to mention that part of the conversation would be made out of earshot, striding over to meet the other man. “Well?”

“No search teams,” Malvick replied.

“I thought everyone's too afraid to enter here?” 

“They are.” Malvick eyed Sheppard all propped up. “I see we're almost ready.”

The knife offered Ronon little comfort, forcing him to think of dishonorable acts. “No.”

“It's not a request.”

“Food and shelter aren't substitutions for loyalty.” Ronon waited, finding an opening. “You've said that we're alike. Then tell me why I should listen to you. Why didn't you ask us for help?”

Malvick Adam's apple bobbed in a quiet tug-of-war. “I didn't think you'd agree.”

“That's your reason!” 

“Have you looked around?” Malvick snarled, sweeping his hands. “Who does sumthin' for nothing? No one. There's always an agenda. Always a double cross.”

“Not if you talked about an escape!” 

“To follow me into the Void?” Malvick's deep laughed bounced off the mountain. “When I first had my suspicions, I wasn't gonna offer a choice. If your pal didn't agree, no problem. I'm much bigger,” he chuckled. “I'd drag him along if I had to. _But I knew._ No way would he help without you. Even if I put a knife to his throat, he'd refuse.” Turning his back, Malvick said, “Just like I know you plan on using a knife on me if I force him to go now.”

Ronon couldn't believe his ears, but deep down he understood. He remembered when Beckett offered to cut the tracker out of his back and he’d expected to be attacked as soon as he released Teyla as a hostage. Nothing was free without leverage.

“How long have you been here?” Ronon knew time destroyed all sense of trust. Killed hope.

This time Malvick looked away. “Too long.”

“What do the prison transports do in the Void?”

Malvick walked in a small circle, stopping in front of Ronon. “Drop off all their failures. All those too messed up to use. And too scary to control.”

Ronon stared at him. “Their own people?”

“They won't get their hands dirty with killing. Me, on the other hand, that's my job.” Malvick pulled out a blade and tapped it on his hip. “See, I _am a liar_. I don't hang out with the beasts. I hunt 'em down and put them out of their misery.”

“You've killed them _all_?” Ronon couldn't even guess such numbers. 

Maybe the goggles hid Malvick's guilt, or maybe he didn't feel anything at all. “Don't waste your energy feeling sorry for them. They ain't innocent anymore. Some of them could rip your head off with their bare hands. Others could track you halfway across the desert with their sense of smell. And a few, well, they're barely human at all.”

“Like Michael's experiments,” Ronon breathed.

“Don't know him.”

“That's why no one enters the Void? Even if there's water here?”

There. Another odd facial twitch. “Most don't have the skills to find a path through the mountain. And if you ever saw what the beasts have done to those who've tried. You'd be scared, too. A few are lucky enough to escape and share what they've witnessed. Besides, you'd have to live long enough to discover the water. After enough people enter the Void and don't return. Well, lesson learned.” 

Like the Shan'ka and their use of 'deterrents'. There was more to it, but Ronon didn't press. 

Malvick nodded in Sheppard's direction. “Don't think he's going to be fighting off wild beasts anytime soon. You're lucky to have me, because time's almost out.”

Ronon's chest tightened at his choice. “How long?”

“A couple cycles. Maybe more. It'll take that long to reach the ring with him, walking or not.”

Sheppard didn't have the strength to move, and carrying him could puncture a lung. “We're waiting. Give him time to get ready.”

“Dead men can't operate the ring.”

“He can't do it!” Ronon growled.

“Oh, I don't know. I think you underestimate what he can do with a little persuasion.” Malvick gave a tight smile, fully at ease again. “Why don't you ask him? And while you're at it, ask him about what's possible when using orris.”

* * *

John ate the stew despite the chewy bits, his belly twisting hungrily in relief. He licked the brown juice at his lips, the clay pot cradled against his sunburned chest, catching bits of angry words carried by the wind. They had to withdraw, he got that much, no doubt his injuries a hindrance to a speedy retreat. Mistakes were like cockroaches, resistant, able to multiply and swarm. He'd been captured, submitted, and yet lived long enough to be a liability. 

Or maybe _he was the cockroach_ , allowed to skitter around to spread disease and destruction. It didn't matter with so much at stake. Not that he knew what those stakes were. He hated this, his head fuzzy, ideas and thoughts evaporating out his ears.

Ronon came over, fatigue pronounced in all his movements. Sitting down next to John, he stretched out his bad leg, fingers absently massaging the muscles. “Sheppard.”

John listened to the latest briefing about threat assessments and mission goals. Facts and objectives drawing him out of his haze. He was left with more questions than answers, his mind in tactical mode. The Void was in constant nightfall with little visibility. “How far to the gate?'

“Few days.”

“That with or without me?”

“There is no without you,” Ronon said with a glare. 

“Right. Because I'm the only one who can activate it.” John took a deep breath, testing his endurance and failing miserably.

“We can wait a day or two.”

“And risk being overrun by...” By what, John? Human experiments? Frankenstein and Igor? “I don't want to be forced to defend ourselves against victims of the Saurins. No, we'll go--” 

“After we sleep.”

He didn't want to sleep; he wanted to leave, to do anything instead of lie here. Ronon was giving him that _no backing down_ look and John had already lost too many battles. “Okay,” he relented, wondering when he'd ever win another round again. John was handed a fresh dunka pouch, and he nearly downed the whole thing with a few gulps.

Ronon broadcasted an obvious ‘we need to talk’ vibe. “What?” John grunted.

“We've all done things we want to forget. But when you can smell the blood on your hands, hear those you killed in your dreams, you'd do anything to forget.”

“This supposed to lull me to sleep?” Because John really wanted Ronon to shut up.

“We've all found ways to get through stuff when there's no way out. But you don't have to face your demons alone, John. This isn't Atlantis and there are no reports to fill out.”

There was a hand on his shoulder and John actually longed for the human contact, allowed himself to accept what was offered. And felt himself break a little.

Ronon dipped down to his ear. “Just you, me, a keg of ale, and a set of bantos sticks when we get home. Then you're telling me everything.”

“Okay,” John breathed. “Think I could handle that.”

“Going to find Malvick. See about our supply situation.”

Ronon disappeared into the dusky shadows and John wondered who was kidding who about the three day journey. He hadn't even managed standing up yet.

“Guess he doesn't have a strong backbone.” Malvick came out and plopped down, sitting with his legs sprawled out. “Didn't picture him as the non-confrontational type.”

John's body pulsated from one pain or another and he was too exhausted to play mind games. “What do you want?”

“I want revenge. I want to see the sun set and rise one last time.” Malvick placed his hands behind his head and leaned against the rock. “I want to see your people stop the Saurin. Makes you wonder, what's been going on this whole time while you've been gone.”

Thinking about Atlantis only brought on depression. “Haven't really thought about it.”

“Their technology and ambitions pose a real threat. If your world didn't ally with them, makes you enemies.” Malvick waited, allowed the words to fester. “I could help, you know. Once we escaped.”

“How's that?”

“I'll tell you all about their past, their secrets. Their weakness.” Malvick's big hand fished around a pocket and pulled out a shred of fabric. “I have this. We both know you can't hack it. Not a reflection on you, but do you really want your final mission to fall apart?” Pulling his goggles down, milky white eyes stared aimlessly at him. “You have no idea what they've accomplished with their enhancements. Or the extent of their mistakes.” 

Malvick eased the scrap of cloth in John's good hand. “We both know this will make the journey bearable. _But you'll make it._ Not just for you and your friend. But for your people.”

* * *

Sleep was closing his eyes and concentrating on the color black, or counting backwards from a thousand without effect. A migraine took up permanent residence behind both eyes and the consuming pain that'd robbed him of consciousness earlier, now kept him awake. There'd been a gate on this world right under their noses. If it was true, if he could use the golden ticket that brought him to this galaxy to find a way home, then he could reach down and beat everything back one last time. 

A John Sheppard Hail Mary.

His fingers strayed to his pocket, rubbing over the needle-shaped bumps.

Ronon came over with a pair of shoes. “Malvick found these for you.”

“He just _happened_ to have a pair lying around?” John checked the worn-out leather soles and stitching; obviously they'd been manufactured elsewhere. Sliding his sunburned feet into them, he was surprised they were about the right size, and tried not to think about the previous owner while lacing them up. 

“You ready?” Ronon asked. 

“Yep.”

Ronon supported him under the armpits and slowly helped him get vertical, John's legs shaking as they tried to support his weight. Things went from gray to reddish black, the world tilting, and Ronon held on to him, waited until John stopped swaying. He fought the urge to throw up, breathing as deeply as possible, imagining all those who'd kill to be in his place. All those who'd die just to see the next miserable day. 

“Okay,” he grit out. Ronon backed off, still within reach, still too close. John stood on his own, knowing this was just the tip of the iceberg. _Get it together._ He didn't have any bleeding holes in him, no gaping wounds. “Alright,” he said breathlessly.

Ronon was going to pop his jaw if he clamped it any tighter. John gave him a nod and the whole walking on his own thing was nixed when Ronon wrapped an arm around his waist. “Ow,” John said. 

“Sorry,” Ronon mumbled before adjusting things so John could lean on him a bit. 

“Ain't this cute. Maybe the beasts will slow down to give us a head start,” Malvick mocked, goggles boring a hole through John. “Come on, we've wasted enough time.”

It really was ridiculous. Ronon used his cane for support while John leaned on his friend's other side. It was like they were in some kind of alien potato sack race without the burlap. Moving mapped out every inch of his busted body, but he was alive to experience it, and that was one second more than any person who died around him ever had. He forced his legs to endure his weight, counted every painful intake of oxygen, and bumped his broken hand against his thigh to focus the pain when the rest of him tried to quit.

* * *

John was dragging himself across another damn desert, except this time, he was the one in need of support; anytime Ronon faltered, it nearly brought them both crashing down. John let Ronon lead since he couldn't maintain a straight path. Things got real tunnel-visioned; pain did that, warped all sense of time and distance, made him see and hear odd things. Buzzing then ringing noises. Fractals and starbursts twinkling no matter if his eye was open or closed. 

Whenever his body attempted to give in, his ability to berate himself soared to new creative heights.

“Enough.”

“No,” John rasped.

“We need a break,” Ronon insisted.

John shook his head, not knowing if he could ever start again if they stopped.

“ _I_ need a break,” Ronon growled, halting their momentum.

John slowly settled down next to a boulder, bones grating, muscles giving out as soon as flesh met stone. He was a living piñata, waiting on the next swing of the baseball bat.

Ronon nudged him. “You okay?”

“No,” John admitted, surprised by his blind honesty.

“Maybe we should--”

“We can't stop for long.” John took a shuddering breath, and exhaled, squinting in the growing dimness. “I'll be good in a few.”

For a moment he thought Malvick had left them, but the walking mountain had done a quick perimeter and had come back to hulk nearby. “Shall I learn a new hobby while you two relax?”

“What's our progress?” John spoke up, noticing Ronon's agitation.

“Not much,” Malvick informed them. 

John watched Ronon's eyes do that non-blinking thing when he was about to lose it. He grabbed his friend's wrist, dug his nails in, and felt Malvick take in the whole display. “I'm curious. Why are you here? What crime did you commit?”

“None.”

“Most people in prison are there for a reason.”

“This wasn't always a prison,” Malvick said, staring off in the distance. 

“And you know this how?” 

“What does it matter?” Malvick asked impatiently.

“Who cares?” Ronon barked.

“Shan'ka, ex-Shan'ka. You were all prisoners of the Saurin, but you're the _special one_?” John bit off.

Malvick grabbed John by the scruff of his robe, pulling him up and Ronon's knife was instantly under the man's jaw.

“Let him go.” 

“Think you're faster?” Malvick challenged Ronon.

“No, but I'll still make you bleed.”

John was sick of Malvick's laugh, but Malvick released him and smiled that big grin of his. “Never said I was a prisoner of the Saurin.” 

Ronon caught John before he fell to the ground and helped lower him down. 

“What came first, the chicken or the egg?” It was rare to catch anyone off-guard these days and John enjoyed his own private joke. “Not a prisoner, not a guard. Just do the dirty work?”

“I hate what they did to me.”

“Who?” Because John was confused. Why did someone like Malvick live in the Void?

Malvick spat on the ground. “Doesn't matter.” 

“Sounds like you have a beef with the Shan'ka. Why? When the Saurin are your enemy?” John wanted to know.

“The Shan'ka _were_ the Saurin. They changed their names after the Great Extermination. When the Saurin left, the Shan'ka adapted to life in the desert.”

“If the Void's better, why didn't they stay there?” Ronon asked.

“Would you live in the ashes of the very place that was your prison?”

“No,” Ronon agreed. “And you stay in the dark because you're sensitive to light?” 

“Light don't bother me.”

“How far can you see?”

“Far.”

Ronon growled again and John jumped in. “How...I mean what's it like?” 

Malvick looked down at him. “Heat. Emotion. Everything has a different color.”

It was unimaginable. Walking radar and a lie detector rolled in one. Like the fucking Shan'ka. “And the goggles?” 

Malvick smiled at John. “Good to hide behind. Puts people ill at ease.” 

He might have dug deeper for answers, there was something more to Malvick's hate of the Shan'ka, but there was a dull spoon burrowing into his spine, and to top it all off, all the water he'd been drinking had finally reached a saturation point. 

“Hey, buddy?”

Ronon lowered to his haunches. “What's up?”

“Think you could give me a hand?” 

“Sure.” 

Ronon lifted him by the armpits again and he sagged at first, cursing his weakness. He waited for his equilibrium to right itself and grunted an “okay” which was John Sheppard for 'you can let go.' Too bad Ronon didn't get the translation.

“Now what?” 

“I can walk three feet to take a piss,” John argued. 

Ronon let go of him, staying a meter away.

John waited, almost hummed, and rolled his eyes when the rest of his body finally caught up to his bladder's demands. What he didn't expect was the sucker punch to the small of his back when he relieved himself. By some miracle he stayed on his feet, the onslaught receding enough to notice the red-tinged sand by his shoes. 

“What's wrong?”

Damn Ronon and his sixth sense. “Just gimme a second,” John said over his shoulder. 

The timer on their ticking clock just got sped up a notch. Digging through his robe, John fingered the only weapon he had in this whole fubared situation. Maybe it would mask his pain; maybe it'd make him forget how much he hurt. But it'd do _something_. He fingered ten needles, chewed and swallowed them quickly, his taste buds overcome by a familiar bitterness.

Turning, he shuffled toward Ronon, keeping his voice down. “Think my kidneys are messed up. It's probably best we get moving again.”

Ronon hid his worry with a simple nod and John didn't grumble when they started their three-legged potato sack hobble again.

* * *

Hobbling, panting, transcending physical barriers was like the _ryoko_ , a Satedan's test of endurance during a crossroad in life. A warrior went out alone without supplies to hike the salt barrens of _Natel_ for a three day journey to cleanse the soul. Sometimes you carried weights around the ankles and shoulders to fortify the challenge, clarifying your vision. This was Ronon's second such journey; the first was made when he chose continuing in the military instead of attending the university. He'd accepted the wisdom granted from his first ryoko; the current one was a sinister taskmaster, intent on seeing him fail.

He had no problem accepting its harsh teachings, or bowing and admitting he was unworthy of new knowledge if it meant surviving to the gate. Because he was going to carry his CO home and he vowed to live long enough for revenge. Against the Saurin and to exact violence on the Jad. 

Sheppard wheezed this odd guttural noise, wavering on his feet, his shoes scraping the ground when Ronon picked up the slack. Pissing blood meant things were broken inside, things that a bandage or water and food couldn't cure. 

“You okay?” he asked Sheppard.

But only those whistle breathing sounds responded. They'd been walking for over two thousands steps, further than the settlement. The horizon was charcoal gray and getting darker; the rocky ground no longer reflected the blaring sun like a mirror, but that didn't stop his body from shaking with fatigue. 

“Time for another break,” he rasped, a cough threatening to rip through his lungs.

Sheppard was silent, his arm still around Ronon's waist in a frozen grip for life. Once he stopped, it was like one of those rubber bands. Sheppard's feet kept going until the rest of him snapped back and Ronon caught him. “Hey, easy,” he said, lowering him to the ground.

Malvick was out of range, his pace always meters ahead of them. He'd stop eventually, walk and sniff the air, ignoring them for the mere pieces of the puzzle they represented. Ronon hated relying on a man who had lied to them since the beginning for their only means of food and water. 

He rolled his sore shoulders, looking over at Sheppard curled on his side. “Think we've made good time.”

Sheppard squinted, rolling onto his back in the same painful way of Ronon's grandfather during his last days. “Sky's getting darker.”

Ronon looked up. “Yeah.”

“That fucking eclipse's still there. Hiding everything. I...I really wished we could see the constellations.”

“You two ready?”

Ronon glanced at their escort, then at Sheppard as he searched for his missing stars. “No. We should eat then we'll go.”

Malvick made grunts of displeasure, but what choice did he have?

* * *

Ronon kept searching for signs of a real night, wondering if they'd been swallowed up in a giant cave. “So, the sun never sets in the desert and never rises here?”

“The Void is the only place without the sun. If you walk far enough from the gate, it's waiting for you on the other side,” Malvick snorted.

“That doesn't make sense.”

“Why?”

“Because...” Ronon started, then he thought of planets with really long nights and days. Weeks or even months by Atlantis time, but those were rare. “Outside the Void. The sun has to set at some point. Maybe it just takes a thousand cycles of something.” Maybe hundreds of years? Ronon had never heard of that, but that didn't make it true.

“I've been here my whole life. The sun's never left the sky outside the Void. Moved maybe in different points, but still always there.”

It was a mystery for McKay, but there'd been something else. “You've been past the gate? What's there?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Malvick turned his head. “If you walk too far past the settlement into deep desert you'll die from the heat.”

“And if you keep walking in the Void?'

“Even before the Great Extermination, I only went north of the compound once. And you don't go _through the Void_ , it gets too cold. You go around the edges. But the whole Void's surrounded by the desert.” 

Ronon was going to ask about this extermination, but Malvick outpaced them with four or five quick steps, forging another giant gap between them. 

“You doing okay?” he asked Sheppard.

“ _Baayad beh-ram._ ”

It was the third time his friend had mumbled in another language and Ronon didn't want to know where his CO thought he was.

He counted the next thousand steps and the next, and wondered if his ryoko's lesson was about repetition, and what one gains from being forced to do the same thing over and over again as he counted his twenty-fifth hundredth footfall.

* * *

A small, odd black box and pair of bedrolls waited for them by a crumbling wall of rust-colored rock. Ronon lowered a boneless Sheppard onto the closest bedding and hobbled over to the odd box, his sweat-coated skin shivering in the chilly air. The object gave off a source of heat and he moved it between the both of them, stretching out, his vertebrae popping and cracking like elastic. 

“John?”

“Think...I'm beat, buddy.”

At least Ronon understood those words. “Yeah. Same here,” he said, drifting off as soon as his eyes closed.

* * *

The aroma of food wafted through the air and Ronon rolled over to a rag covered with recently heated meat strips. Even before he was fully awake, he gnawed at the stringy bits, careful not to bite his own hand, weirded out at how much it tasted like an MRE. 

“Get any sleep?” he asked Sheppard.

Sheppard tested his lower jaw with a wince. “What's sleep?”

Ronon snorted, setting aside his meal. He had to take care of business and prep himself for the next phase of their journey. “You need to…you know?”

“Think I can handle it myself,” Sheppard grumped, unable to stand fully on his own.

Ronon stepped in without a word. It was far easier to haul Sheppard up and get him taken care of than the last time. After finishing with his own needs, Ronon shook his head as Sheppard shuffled back unaided. Ronon studied his friend's graying pallor, both black eyes framing the right side of his bludgeoned face. 

Ronon returned to his spot, rubbing his hands in front of the heater box. “Don't think we have the proper clothes for the rest of the trip.” 

“Based on what Malvick says, I don't think the 'gate is too deep inside the Void. We should be good. If not. I'm sure he'll make things _appear_ ,” Sheppard said with a lazy wave of his hand. 

“Hmmm. Maybe.”

“Admit it. You admire him,” Sheppard spoke matter of fact. “In that crazy villain type of way.”

“I admire survivors.” The meaning was lost on his CO's vacant stare. Looking down, Ronon pushed the rag of food over. “You didn't finish eating.”

“Breakfast of champions,” Sheppard mumbled, slowly picking through the rest. 

Ronon wasn't stupid; he knew what was suppressing Sheppard's appetite and was fully aware of the necessity of certain actions during battle. They were in the fight of their lives. “Does it help?”

Sheppard stiffened. “What?” 

He didn't reply; they both knew what Ronon was referring to. 

“Help?” Sheppard played with the word with his tongue. 

“With the pain?” 

“No...it's more like I'm outside myself.” Sheppard gnawed at his scabbed bottom lip. “It...distances the pain. I still _feel it_...like this continuous echo beating me.” He raised his mangled fingers. “Wish it was stronger to tell you the truth.”

“Why not take more?” Malvick's voice came out if its usual direction of nowhere. 

Sheppard actually seemed to consider it and while Ronon was all about sparing his friend obvious suffering, he wasn't going to go about it recklessly. He knew orris was used to control appetite and the Jad pushed it as an escape. Who knew what amount did what? And what was too much?

Ronon stood, cutting off the debate. “We're ready to go.” 

“Does _go_ include moving faster?”

When they got to the gate, Ronon considered the best way to pay back Malvick properly for all his _aid._

* * *

Self doubt was a disease, a cowardly enemy that nibbled at you on the inside, and hid out of striking distance. Maybe they should make a stand, wait for the transport and attack. Ronon had two good hands and Malvick was a proven hunter. But he would risk Sheppard's health, not knowing the extent of his injuries, completing what the Jad had begun. 

Ronon sipped his water when he should be sleeping. There was no hiding a heavy limp, his strength waning under hours of his CO's dead weight and their unyielding pace. This was the greatest of ryokos, to keep hauling his friend's damaged body around, a dying shell held together by will and a clouded mind. 

Malvick strolled over, wiping dust off his pants. “We're not creating enough distance.”

Ronon didn't reply. There was no going any faster.

“You've been hunted before. I know all the signs.” Malvick coiled like a snake next to Sheppard, taking Ronon's silence as affirmation. “Then you understand how to be the predator. Stalking your prey, soaking in the thrill of the chase, savoring the moment when you both realize you've won. Losing yourself in a rush of violence and euphoria.”

Ronon's heart pounded. 

“The beasts have itches in the brain, a fever that robs them of rational thought.” Malvick popped his knuckles. “They've been caged, dissected, and put back together. Words become noise; people represent pain. They kill for a moment's silence that won't ever come. But it's all they have. An insatiable appetite for aggression.” He glanced over at Sheppard. “We need to improvise.” 

“We're doing this my way. And if you try anything, Sheppard and I will find the gate on our own,” Ronon threatened.

Malvick stood and for a moment, Ronon thought he was going to challenge him. Instead he walked away, disappearing again into the growing night. Ronon shifted his bedroll next to Sheppard's and slept right next to him, weary of Malvick's growing restlessness.

* * *

“Get off your asses!”

Ronon sprung awake, scrambling to his feet before his vision cleared from sleep.

“Move it!” Malvick barked, spinning on his heel as Sheppard stared glaringly up at them.

Ronon was by his friend's side, getting him mobile. “What's going on?” His answer was the clunky transport breaking through the atmosphere, skimming across the Void on its way to dump its live load. “How long do we have?”

“We don't.”

Ronon adjusted Sheppard's arm over his shoulder. “Where's the drop-off point?”

“Behind us, ahead. It changes.”

“How far to the gate!”

“Another cycle, maybe less if we ran the whole time.”

His calf picked this time to spasm, the cramp spreading down Ronon's leg. He gritted his teeth, trying to quell the rest of his body from trembling.

“Carry me.”

Ronon didn't think Sheppard had even been coherent enough to comprehend what was going on. “John.”

“No, I'm slowin' us down.” Sheppard nodded at Malvick. “He's a big boy. I'm sure he could handle it.” Turning to face Ronon, Sheppard looked him directly in the eyes. “It's a strategic risk. The gate's our only escape, but only if we have time to get there. If I aggravate my injuries Keller'll fix me up. But if we die before we reach our objective, it's game over.” His declaration finished, he gave Ronon a pat on the shoulder, disentangling himself from his friend's support. 

The facts were simple. They were out of choices. 

“Let's do it,” Ronon said, using his CO's famous words.

“Take these.” 

Malvick handed Ronon two eight inch blades of steel and he couldn't help admiring the weight and balance. “What about you?”

“Got six more.” Malvick flashed his teeth and if wasn't for the goggles, Ronon would've sworn his eyes were filled with anticipation “Alright. Enough talking.” And he turned to Sheppard. “Be sure to hold on tight.”

Sheppard concealed his pain as he always did while Malvick picked him up, adjusting him across both shoulders. Malvick was smart, hooking his left arm around Sheppard's thigh and wrist, leaving his right hand free. “Come on.”

As they started the last leg of the journey, there was a familiar set of engines in the background, the transport flying ahead and making its second stop east and parallel to their position.

Malvick cursed under his breath. “Guess there's no avoiding them now.”

* * *


	5. Conclusion

Breathing was a twisting knife on the inhale, shards of broken glass on the exhale. Malvick's shoulder dug into John's middle, the moving gait constant torture. He muffled his screams into the crook of his elbow, biting and gnawing at his arm like a rabid dog. He'd been studious of the number of needles consumed in the last day, creating a fog around the pain, but it'd been one he could find his way out of in an emergency. 

The constant grind of his ribs and jarring to every inch of his body was a crescendo that had him digging for how much orris he could find, stuffing an unknown number that didn't slip from his bouncing fingers into his mouth. 

Survive this, John. Make it through, use your magic gene to get Ronon home and bring back Atlantis intel on the Saurin threat. What was the saying? Turn lemons into lemonade? He laughed, imagining Rodney's indignant expression. The image was a painful reminder of what he was fighting for. He focused on riding the incoming wave of _not so here_ and squeezed his eyes closed in hopes of dodging all the monsters who wanted to kill them.

* * *

The detachment thing was weirder this time around. He'd been surfing the Mediterranean Sea, but that wasn't right, because the air wasn't saturated with salt, only ash and ferric oxide. Then the nebulous cloud disappeared and it smelled like the inside of a pencil sharpener, shreds of graphite and dust coating the back of his throat. 

“Is that where you used to live?”

“Where I was _kept._ ”

“It doesn't look that far. Maybe we could--”

“No, we'll keep going. What's left of the buildings sometimes attracts the beasts.”

“Place looks leveled. Did the Saurin destroy it?”

“No, _we_ did.”

John craned his neck from where it hung down and glimpsed at the distant outline of a vast graveyard of demolished buildings and watched a dead city vanish from sight.

* * *

“We have two on our tail.”

He knew that voice. Was it his radio?

“We'll round the next bend and circle around,” was the gruff reply in John's ear, his hand flailing for his headphones. 

“I won't leave Sheppard.”

“We're not. Got a nice place to stash him.”

John was suddenly flying in the air and crash landing in a fireball. He reached for his aviators, fingers sliding over his numb face, watching a chunk of earth shift in front of him and block the incoming streams of twilight. 

“Hey!” he screamed.

“Sheppard, you gotta stay quiet. We're coming back. You hear me?”

“Holland?”

No, Holland was dead, but who else would be out there with him? This wasn't the cave they'd been holed in when night had descended. John peeked through the gap of the boulder he was trapped behind, skimming the gray poking through, pausing when he noticed his bloated sausage fingers.

John was all about the Novocaine. His rubbery left hand tried prying at the crack, the giant rock obstinate against his efforts. Sliding sideways, the cave held him up, and he quit pawing at the entrance, satisfied at watching the world from his slanted peephole. Staying like this was just dandy, and he sunk into himself, not giving a crap about what lurked on the other side.

The outside was a tantalizing stream of silence and noise. Perhaps he should be worried; there was screaming after all, twisted inhuman cries of terror. He used to be motivated by such noise, but forgot why when he tried to recall the reasons. His heart was doing a rumba and he lost himself in the rapid staccato.

Suddenly the cave began to shake, jolting John out of his nice slated place, heart skipping at the wild man who suddenly appeared. “Sheppard?”

It took a moment to realize that was him and John shook his head. 

The wild man - no, Ronon - reached out for him. “We have to go.”

John didn't want to leave, knowing deep inside he'd be forced to face things that were better off _out there._

“Come on, help me.” Ronon pulled him out to stand, and John wobbled drunkenly, Ronon grabbing him by the arm. “Sheppard.”

Solid ground formed beneath his feet. “We've got to go. Gotcha,” he mumbled, looking regretfully at the hole he was being forced to leave.

* * *

Malvick prowled restlessly out of the corner of Ronon's eye, constantly throwing back glances at them. Ignoring him, Ronon tightened his grip on Sheppard's forearm when the man started to tip forward. “John!” Sheppard's legs gave out and Ronon held him up, lowering him to his knees. “Talk to me, buddy.”

Nobody was home in Sheppard Land and Ronon frowned. “We'll be at the gate soon. You need to hang on longer.”

A small amount of recognition flickered in Sheppard's eye. “I'm really tired, big guy.” 

“You giving up?” Ronon accused, echoing a familiar argument from under the remains of Michael's compound. There was a sad chuckle and Ronon recalled John's earlier painful confession of failure. “When you give up, I drag your ass back. Got it?”

Sheppard nodded, giving a strangled, “Got it.” Ronon helped steady his CO, giving him a moment to pull things together. “What about...”

“We're clear for now,” Ronon answered, staring out at their guide hanging back. 

Malvick sniffed the air again, freezing mid-step in his prowling, and made a beeline toward them. “Okay, you got your two minutes. Let's move.” 

Ronon tried not thinking how much further they had to go, or how bad off Sheppard was looking. Or what had happened behind the bend. Two people were dead, two foes he'd never seen coming, two hunters killed by a superior predator before he'd gotten close enough to see the bodies. Staring at Malvick, Ronon had never been so torn between admiration and disgust.

* * *

They were being pursued in all directions, their foes purposely lurking around the corners to make them sweat. Ronon couldn't see them, but his spine tingled in warning, his hearing straining over the faintest noise. The two Malvick killed earlier had attempted a flanking maneuver; these new foes were hanging back. 

Ronon pressed harder, striding next to Malvick. “There are three behind us.”

“And six ahead.”

“I'll take care of mine. Can you—”

“Don't worry.”

Ronon glanced at Sheppard's form and Malvick gave a smile. “He's our ticket outa here. I won't let anything happen to him.”

Nodding, Malvick ramped it up a notch as Ronon slowed down. 

There. Five meters east. Two targets and an additional one coming at him from the west.

He slowed, no longer hiding the limp, allowing it to show and entice, fingers gripping his cane, ready to drop it for both knives.

Two targets emerged at once and he let his cane clatter to the ground. 

They came from both sides, not monsters, but people with drab infirmary tops and pants with hair that smelled of shampoo and disinfectant. His enemies were unarmed and Ronon hesitated, growling when two Saurin moved closer, his hands tightening around both knives. 

The Saurin bared their teeth, their voices shot and raw. It seemed to frustrate them, their mouths opening wide in silent whispered screams.

Ronon sensed their untapped rage, watched as saliva dripped from their mouths. He threw the first knife, hitting the closest guy in the chest, then adjusted his aim and tossed the other blade. 

It missed the mark and the second Saurin went on the offensive.

The man was unimaginably quick, and Ronon couldn't get his hands up fast enough to block the endless swings. What the punches had in speed, they lacked in strength, and Ronon went for the guy's throat and squeezed, holding on until the Saurin fell limp. 

Where was number three?

There was a smear of motion and color. Something smashed into his face, then his side, and clipped him in the back. It was like the air pummeled him. Ronon swung, swiping emptiness and caught a lucky blow to the eye.

Then there was a noise and the Saurin appeared next to him huffing for air. Ronon didn't think, lashing out and catching the guy on the chin, knocking him unconscious. 

He hobbled over, gathering up his weapons, checking heartbeats. Two dead, one out cold. He stared at their infirmary clothes and human features. They weren't any different than Michael's hybrids.

He raised the knife to finish off the guy who still breathed by his feet, but for some reason Ronon couldn't deliver the death blow, and he stormed away, trying not to think about why.

* * *

Images of Koyla's torture chamber flashed through John's mind, all the dampness sinking into his bones, a smoldering fire raging inside his chest while the rest of him swam in a cotton sea. After each feeding, his veins had flowed with leftover enzyme, his mind disconnected, sparing him from the shock ravaging his system. There had been this phase, this _in between time_ , when the enzyme dissipated before the pain. 

He dug his fingers into the knotted muscle beneath him, grounding himself, and the world jolted to a halt. John found himself sliding into a hole while someone whispered, “Don't move.”

“What's...”

“Don't make a sound,” someone ordered, the voice morphing into Malvick as he slipped an object in John's hand. “If you see anything, use this.”

John stared dumbly at the knife then back into the desert night, listening to sounds of battle echoing off the rocks. He was in a fight. No, _they_ were in a fight and John scanned for his teammate, but without stars, there was little light save for a patch of purple at the far the horizon. He shivered, his body covered with perspiration, and he pushed himself up on legs of pins and needles, blade trembling awkwardly in his hand. 

He crawled out of the rut in the ground, leaving behind a perfectly good foxhole and exposing himself. Wiping the sweat on his brow, John stared back at the hole in temptation, the nothingness calling to him. But his feet carried him forward, the air crackling with energy, like invisible lightning strikes. There was a scream, followed by another.

John waited, his heart chiseling its way through his sternum. The wind carried the smell of rubbing alcohol, and he froze, his blood pumping loudly in his ears.

He saw it. A speck becoming a human outline a few meters away. The skittering gait was achingly familiar, not Ronon's, not Malvick's. It was quick, standing before him, unsure of its next move. John stood, breath caught in his throat upon the bluish-tinted skin and cat eyes.

It wasn't full-fledged bug yet. In fact, there were no scales or spikes poking out, no exoskeleton trying to replace soft flesh. This was a dream, another waking nightmare, except the knife was heavy in John's hand and his skin crawled with goose flesh. 

“Hey,” he called out without response. “Do you understand me?”

The Saurin cocked its head at John's voice.

“I don't want to hurt you,” John said, using calming tones. But he couldn't let go of the knife, not with the _in between phase_ slowly evaporating. “We could both go our own way.”

John's legs were shaking and cat eyes locked onto the knife trembling in his hand. 

Another scream pierced the darkness, this one more pain filled, and the Saurin listened until it faded away, its features creasing with tension. The Saurin edged closer, its dark sandy hair and matching eyebrows that hadn't fallen off yet.

“Don't come any closer,” John warned.

“Kill it!” Malvick's voice boomed in the distance.

John jerked at the sound, and the Saurin lunged, its weight slamming into him, knocking John down. Fire lanced through his shoulder as claws raked through his robe and he instinctively plunged the knife into the Saurin's chest, blood splattering his face. The Saurin made a keening noise, raising its claws for the kill.

He expected his throat to be ripped apart, but the Saurin was knocked away, followed by a crunch like snapping celery. John glanced down at the dead body and the skin was actually gray, not blue, and he wiped at his eyes with a shaky hand.

Malvick came into view, his breathing gigantic gasps, and he scanned the distance for something, his lips curling upward. “Looks like we're all still alive.”

John searched the darkness for Ronon, his own breaths a noisy rale.

Ronon hobbled over, winded but whole, and bent down to John's side. “You're bleeding.” 

Among other things, John thought. He wiped at the blood on his face and gave his shoulder a glance. “They're not too deep.” He stared at the stains on his fingers. Human blood. These people were victims, were the reason he and Ronon were here. 

“Rest time's over,” Malvick commanded, taking a whiff at the wind. 

John was freezing, but he wasn't numb anymore, and despite the pulsating agony of his hand and almost everywhere else, he desperately held on to it. “I don't want to kill any more of them.”

“It's kill or be killed. You know that.”

John didn't look at Malvick, but to Ronon. “Not if we can help it.”

Ronon stood there, jaw locked in place, but he didn't argue, and that was all that John needed.

* * *

The final leg of their journey lasted ten or twenty minutes in a din of thrumming pain. Sheppard no longer held back, grunting and panting with each bumpy step, while Ronon's was a blaze down his leg. 

His breath got caught in his throat, all the exhaustion and torment ceasing when he gazed at the gate ahead.

He dug his cane into the ground, barreling toward their way home, unsure if it was all a cruel trick. Malvick deposited Sheppard onto his feet, hands steadying the man, leading him toward the DHD. 

Ronon held his breath as Sheppard clung to the pedestal and gave this strange laugh. “The DHD has a false panel over it. Probably made out of out something to resist any force.” The outer controls retracted back. “All they did was hide the real controls from you,” he said sadly.

The 'gate hadn't been programmed differently. The Saurin had only concealed the real dialing part with something that only responded to the Ancestor gene. 

Ronon wanted to yell at Sheppard to start dialing, but there was something in his demeanor, the way he glared accusingly at the controls.

“Dial!” Malvick demanded, all his calm dissolving.

“There's...” Sheppard hesitated, pressing all the right buttons without effect. “It's broken.”

“Then fix it!” Malvick screamed.

Ronon put himself between Sheppard and the fuming man. “Stand back.” He waited until Malvick eased away and watched his friend gazing at the controls. “Take your time.”

“It's....” Sheppard fumbled with the display, moving his face within inches to get a decent look and shook his head, the action leaving him woozy. Pitching sideways, he clamped onto the DHD until he was steady. “I'm...I need some time.”

“We don't have any,” Malvick reiterated, looming next to Sheppard. 

Ronon was sick of this. Of running without knowing the reason. “Why are they stalking us?”

“I told you!”

Ronon wouldn't accept that. “You said they were hunters.”

“They are!”

“And they're crazy.”

“You haven't figured that out yet? You think the Saurin drop off just anyone of their people here? Just the ones too far gone. Too dangerous or too broken to fix.”

“Why don't they--”

“Kill them?” Malvick bellowed. “Kill one of their own? They're too morally superior for that. Why do they give water to prisoners?”

Ronon stared, perplexed, buying time for Sheppard to figure out the gate without Malvick breathing down his neck. “They let the prisoners fight it out. But their own kind? They drop them off near the city's remains.” The tendons in his neck bulged, his nerves all twisted and shot. “The Void offers refuge. But...all the wildlife...” Ronon shook his head. “There's none here. Not the type of meat you gave us. I know what its like to be a hunter. Remember?” 

The vein in Malvick's forehead pulsed as he turned his attention to Sheppard. “Well?”

Sheppard could have been daydreaming for all Ronon knew from his mannerisms and he was surprised when the colonel spoke in a rough voice. “There's something wrong with the crystal array. Do you have any tools or parts?”

Malvick strolled over to the gate and began pushing a huge boulder out of the way. “Got to safeguard stuff,” he mumbled, digging and pulling out a metal box and slamming it next to Sheppard's feet. “This is everything I've ever found around the 'gate, not sure about tools but maybe--”

Ronon tensed, reading Malvick's tells as he picked up a scent and tracked peoples' signatures. For the first time he was envious of his superior sight. “How many?”

“Six. They're circling us, probably gearing up for an attack. Rush us at once.” Malvick monitored the movements. “It's what I'd do.”

“We should head them off,” Ronon said, mustering all his willpower. “We don't want to make this a defensive position.” If they made a stand here, there wasn't a way to protect Sheppard, but if they took the fight to the Saurin, it gave his friend time to fix the gate. 

“A few of them could still slip through.”

It was like he was reading Ronon's mind and that freaked him out. Could Malvick do that? The man stared at him again with a sly smirk. Not a mind reader, but able to see through masks, using his vision like one of those mood ring things Rodney scoffed about. “If we catch them off guard...”

“They'll see us coming. The ones who go after the gate tend to be the smartest. No, I have an idea,” Malvick said, twirling a knife.

Such enthusiasm was in stark contrast to Sheppard's knotted ball of tension over the DHD. Ronon went over there, a blip of background noise. “John, we'll be back. Don't worry about--”

Sheppard spun around, all color draining from his face. Ronon almost changed his mind about leaving, until Sheppard dug his fingers into Ronon's shoulder, for balance, or a connection; it was hard to tell. “Go. I can get us home,” he whispered.

“I know.”

Sweat rolled down Sheppard's cheeks, pooling at the bottom of his throat. “Both of us.” 

Ronon squeezed his friend's hand. “Count on it.”

* * *

Crawling under the DHD was testing out Kevlar and getting shot point blank with an automatic rifle. Add in a creeping numbness to John's fingers and that made yanking out control crystals an Olympic sport in coordination. Leaning on the base for support, he choo-chooed for air in a vain attempt to subdue the feeling of pliers cracking his ribs apart. Surely there was an orris needle or two at the bottom of his pocket, but he ignored the urge to put them between his gums. 

Rummaging through the storage box, he found nothing to help him, no magical manual. He did find a few data chips and stuffed them in a pocket for later. Cradling his throbbing right hand in his lap, he channeled his inner McKay and studied one of the crystals.

It was incorrect somehow. Right crystal, wrong spot. Only the dialing part had been protected by a fake panel that only recognized the ATA gene. The rest was up for grabs and frustration. Someone who didn't know how to fix the DHD had rearranged the crystals, leaving it a mess. There were nine in all, and over three hundred thousand combinations. The numbers made his head spin. Literally.

“Come on, what is it?” 

He _had_ to do this. 

There was an order; he just needed to recall which one. Not in an hour, or a half hour. Not with Ronon going up against super genetically-altered people with a side dish of insanity and didn't that also describe Malvick to a freaking T?

Ronon's back-up!

The weight crushing him since their imprisonment, pressed down harder, and its icy numbness robbed him of dexterity, the crystal slipping from his fingers. Come on, John! He fumbled for it, nearly clipping his aching head on the base, staring up at the display out of the corner of his eye. 

_“One day you might have to do this without me, heaven forbid. Each control crystal has a number at the bottom,” Rodney explained._

_“Like a fuse?”_

_Rolling his eyes, Rodney sighed. “Yes, like a fuse, Colonel. Hey, pay attention.”_

John pulled out each crystal, studying the identification markers finely etched at the bottoms, laughing bitterly about the lack of light, and laid them on the ground. They were in Ancient, of course, and he had to bring each one up to his left eye, the symbols bending and blurring. His brain wasn't up for reading, expressing its displeasure in nauseating dizziness, his stomach finally having enough.

He rolled away from the platform, retching what little was in his belly, acid and bile burning his esophagus. The pliers worked their way across his sternum and John resisted the urge to curl up in a ball, wiping spit and tears from his face, and forced himself to crawl back toward the DHD.

And smack dab into a set of feet standing there.

John followed the shoes up a pair of legs, into the oval face of a petite woman clothed in scrubs. He stared, dumbfounded, at strands of strawberry hair and freckled cheeks. There'd never been any female prisoners outside the Void, thank goodness, and seeing one just a few meters away, robbed him of words. 

“Hi,” he said dumbly.

She couldn't be more than twenty-five or thirty with a lithe stature similar to Teyla's and weighed maybe a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. The woman blinked, shifting her gaze from him to the 'gate, tilting her head to examine the ring.

“If you wait a few minutes, I think I can fix it and...” He gasped, his brains trying to force their way out his ears, and swayed on his feet, mumbling, “If I don't pass out.” 

Her penetrating eyes latched onto him and John got lost swimming in their dark blue depths. The countdown clock was flashing zero and he pinched the bridge of his nose as his migraine raged. “Look, if you don't want to talk, that's fine. But if you don't mind…”

_“No.”_

“What? Did you say something?”

The woman simply stood there, fixated by the stargate, her eyes wide as she started toward the DHD. 

“Hey!”

She froze, layers of thick hair obscuring her face, long delicate fingers tracing the outline of the controls. Snatching her hand away as if burned, she held it up in awe, the sleeve of her shirt rolling down to reveal dozens of bloodied gashes. 

“Who did that to you?'

Ignoring him, she circled the DHD, her movements delicate, almost predatory. 

“Get away from that,” John warned, moving toward it.

_“No.”_

John hesitated, his heart speeding like a hummingbird's, the DHD spinning. “That's you. You're inside my head.”

Talking wasn't on the menu. She launched herself at the DHD, pounding the controls with her tiny fists. 

“What are you doing?” John yelled, reaching out to grab her.

His head exploded with **_“No!”_** And John dropped to his knees, a mallet breaking apart his skull from the inside. He screamed, his good eye bugging out of its socket, wrapping his arms around himself while he dry heaved. 

Panting, he stared woozily into a set of ice-blue eyes. “Look,” he coughed. “I can help us... I can help us get home.”

_“HOME.”_

Anguish. Horror. Fear. An onslaught of raw outrage shredded his brain. Needles pierced his arms, ripped open vessels; restraints immobilized his limbs. The smell of sweat, blood and piss assailed him. 

“Stop!” John beseeched. “Please, stop,” he pleaded.

The mental attack ceased, violent tremors seizing his muscles. The woman watched him for a moment, her face a flat slate of marble. She searched the ground, finding another large rock and struggled with its weight before crashing it down onto the control panel.

“Don't do that!” John growled, staggering to his feet in a half hunched-over position. She ignored him, attempting to lift up her weapon, and John lurched over, hand searching for his knife. “Please, don't make me hurt you.”

_“HURT.”_

His heart imploded. John's lungs spasmed for breath and he clawed at his chest, his pulse skyrocketing. She stared at him, vestiges of smiles and shy laughter, twisted and mangled by hate. The mental connection was twofold, and John realized through the waves of madness assaulting him, her frantic necessity to destroy the gate. The one link to her oppressors. 

She grappled with the boulder and raised it to her chest, unable to lift it any higher. 

John had to stop her, hauling himself across the ground with both hands and knees, the pain everywhere. Under his skin, splitting his nerves. She _knew_ what he was doing and under all the   
vile ugliness was a hint of sadness. 

_Don't_ , he screamed in his head, a ping in the chaos of her mind overcoming his. Blood dripped from his nose, his vision gone white. He was stroking out, left with the choice of killing a victim of monsters, or getting him and Ronon home. 

Bowing his head to the ground, John asked forgiveness for his decision as fury was unleashed into him.

* * *

They walked in silence and Ronon rebelled against it. The others were stalking them and talking didn't give away their position.

“The Saurin provide water for the prisoners. Do they drop off supplies for those they leave in the Void?” Malvick said nothing, confirming Ronon's suspicion. “You stole their food.” 

“I did what it took to live. Nothing different than you and your friend.”

“We took our _share.”_

“And you did that without spilling blood?” Malvick mocked. “The Saurin don't drop off their beasts as often as water.”

“You kill them for their supplies, not mercy.”

Malvick spun around, breathing hard. “I hunted the beasts because they turn on one another, prey on the weakest first. There's nothing left in the Void to support them. The Shan'ka took everything useful long ago.” Tapping the knife against his hip in a familiar habit, he cracked his neck. “I right the balance. Keep them from dying slow, horrible deaths. I wasn't lying about that.”

“You don't let a single one live.”

“No.”

“And you enjoy it.”

“Told you, the balick matches got too dull. Thought you might have understood.”

When Ronon had been made a runner, he had done things, had become something less than human. “I killed Wraith.”

“To survive,” Malvick pressed.

“They hunted me. I hunted them back.”

“Do you think with all the Saurin's advancements, that those dropped off might pose a threat? Think the Saurin would sacrifice such precious commodities unless they were too hard to control?” Malvick scanned the horizon and this time his voice was lower. “Killing becomes a habit, another instinct after a while. You forget who you were before life was nothing but sleeping until the night.”

Ronon shivered, because he _understood._ He'd witnessed what a couple months had done to Sheppard, and what additional months might do to them both. But they'd never fall that far. 

Would they?

“And the Shan'ka?” Ronon asked, wondering how they fit in. 

“They can't have the competition. Or maybe they didn't want to see images of themselves daily, knowing nothing's changed since the extermination.” 

“When the Saurin tried to destroy all those they experimented on?”

Malvick's facial muscles twitched. “No. See, one day all the monsters finally had enough. _We_ killed them, nearly wiped them out, but some escaped in ships, leaving behind most of their precious research.” Turning around he searched the darkness. “Then we burned everything down.”

All the ash, the odor of burnt metal, it still hung heavy in the air. 

“Now, I scavenge the debris for parts. Trade what the Shan'ka don't want with the merchants. All those bones, bits of plastic. Keep all the good stuff for myself.”

“Why do you stay here?” 

“I was one of the last. A half-breed. I can't even remember being a child. But I remember being at the mercy of the Saurin. Given their _enhancements._ When the uprising began and the city burned, I tried staying with the Shan'ka. I was different. I didn't have their mental abilities. I hadn't reached their stage of advancement. But I had no where else to go. So I stayed out here. Allowed the Shan'ka to control those in the desert.” 

“And let everyone struggle and die there!” Ronon fumed. 

“Who says anything would be different? Think we'd all just _get along_?” Malvick challenged. The Shan'ka provide control and balance. Besides. What else would they do?”

Things still didn't add up, then Ronon started to put a few more pieces of the puzzle together. “The other prisoners avoid going in here because they’re afraid of mythical creatures.”

Malvick's expression was neutral. “The transport drops off dozens of rejects at a time and it takes me cycles to get them all. Can't help it there's collateral damage. Some prisoners just have bad timing when it comes to being curious. But a few survive and witness the beasts, spreading warnings about the evil lurking here.”

“But the prison transport only comes every forty cycles. What about the times when the Void's clear and it's just you?” Ronon waited and when Malvick said nothing it confirmed his guilt. “You're the real evil in the Void.”

“Am I? By whose standards? Yours?” 

Ronon didn't get it. “And you just wait around? Obeying the Shan'ka who shunned you.”

“No, I found ways to survive. Waiting to see if someone who could operate the gate would be dropped off. I wasn't lying when I said I gave up, but like many things, looking became a habit.” Malvick read Ronon's perplexed expression. “I still have some of the Saurin lab equipment and as part of my deal with the Saurin, they allow me to test all those who come in for a water exchange.”

Ronon's fury boiled. “You tested Sheppard's blood.”

“I did, but like I said, I couldn't be sure it was right. I even made sure he got some help one time because I'm generous like that.”

Nothing made any sense. “But the Saurin can operate Ancestor tech.”

“They altered our genes so we couldn't. Made it easier to keep us locked up.” Malvick suddenly held up a hand, raising his face to the wind, listening. “They're coming. Time for the plan.”

“What is it?” Ronon asked, listening.

“You become the bait.”

And Malvick punched him clean in the face.

* * *

Ronon struggled through the cobwebs of consciousness. Peeling open his eyes, he found himself sprawled on the ground, the scent of anesthetics tainting the air. 

He lay vulnerable, both knives inches within reach, shadowy human forms ghosting the twilight. He was the distraction and that meant moving. His cane was lost in the darkness and he sprang to his feet, his bad leg seizing with the sudden weight, crumpling to his knees with radiating fire.

They shoved him to the ground, pounding him in fury. Ronon grabbed a handful of fabric and flipped a body off him and went for the eyes of another. He needed leverage, lashing out with both fists and feet, regardless of the collateral damage.

Without anyone on top of him, he got to his knees and swiped one of his knives. 

Both Saurin circled him. “Where are the others?” one asked the other.

They talked?

A howl echoing in the distance made everyone flinch. 

They stared at one another, seeing each other for the first time. The Saurin sported human features, short hair and normal skin. Both stared at Ronon in fear, like _he_ was the monster. All three of them trading looks in confusion.

“You're not going to kill us?” one of them asked.

Gripping the knife in his hand, Ronon was lost for words.

It was a fleeting moment. A blur of muscle slammed into the other two. A third Saurin fought like an animal, ripping open the throat of the first guy and pouncing on the other. 

Ronon shoved his knife to the hilt between a set of shoulders, pulling it out and plunging it in back in. There was a scream, and arching and bucking, and Ronon was knocked to the ground.

The Saurin studied him. A patchwork of pasty white skin mixing with normal flesh tones peeked out from clothes that hung over its torso in shreds. Wisps of white hair curled toward a set of green human eyes. Hissing, it readied for an attack, deep gashes from a previous attack healing like a Wraith. 

Ronon waited, blood dripping from his knife, while another figure crept up behind the mutated Saurin and Ronon waved his knife. “Come on! Get me!”

It lunged and Malvick tackled it, the two rolling around on the ground. Malvick got the upper hand and slashed its throat. Ronon watched as Malvick cut off its head and stood on shaky legs. “Some of them can heal real quick. Got to be certain.”

“Thought you left,” Ronon breathed heavily.

“Naw, his buddy got the drop on me when I was hunting this one.” There was a large seeping wound in his shoulder and Malvick stared at it. “He got me good, a point for him.” Scanning the ground, he gestured at the other dead bodies. “You do that?”

“No, he did.” Ronon pointed at the half Wraith, half human thing.

“Leaves one more.”

Malvick's head snapped as a familiar human scream echoed in the air. Ronon gave up searching for his stupid cane and ran full tilt without thought to his leg. Purpose and emotion overrode all his pain as he hobbled in the direction of the 'gate. 

“Go!” he screamed at Malvick, but a gaping wound was a gaping wound, slowing a super soldier to just plain normal. 

Distance for once was on their side and it took two minutes for them to reach Sheppard. Malvick's momentum never slowed and he plowed toward the figure and instantly crumpled to the ground only a few meters away.

Ronon's leg gave out completely, broken bone overriding sheer will, and he lay in sprawl of quivering weakness. There was a woman, a thin spry thing with a huge rock gripped in her fingers. Sheppard screamed in broken clips of sound, crawling toward her in half starts and stops.

Malvick was down, growling in vicious barks and Ronon was frozen in place, a great power keeping him from budging. The woman was shaking, trying to lift up the boulder. 

Sheppard got to his feet and pitched forward, plowing into her. Letting out a strangled, choked sound, he rolled onto his side, the woman motionless next to him. Ronon's body tingled back to life and Malvick scrambled to his feet.

Then everything went crazy.

* * *

Intakes of air filled John's starving lungs as his heart rattled. The phantom imprint of the woman's mind slowly dissipated from John's and he swallowed a 'sorry' under his breath at her. The woman's eyes were closed, her face lax in peaceful unconsciousness. 

“Good job,” Malvick praised him. He stood poised over the woman, the front of his shirt wet with blood, his pants coated with it. “I'll take care of the rest.”

Something clicked, and John covered her, his face meeting the edge of Malvick's knife. “No, you won't,” he growled. 

“Move,” Malvick ordered, adjusting the tip of the blade under John's throat. 

“Back off,” Ronon warned, gripping two blades in both hands.

John clumsily pulled out his own knife, all his weight on his right shoulder and elbow.

“You gonna trade your life for hers?” Malvick asked in disbelief.

“She's no longer a risk,” John hissed.

“And she won't be.” Malvick looked from John to Ronon and let out a chuckle. “Neither of you are fast enough to stop me.”

“Then you'll have to kill me.” 

Malvick gaped at John, pulling down his goggles in silent contemplation. “You're serious?”

“Deadly.” 

“If you touch him, you're dead.” Ronon was barely upright, pale face streaked with blood, his voice unwavering. “Back away. Won't ask again.”

Malvick stared at John. “Tell me why.”

Not a chance. “We're going to leave this place,” John spoke. “There's no more need for vengeance. No matter how many you kill, it won't fill the hole inside you.”

“Will saving one more fill yours?” 

John swallowed. “No, but it helps keep it from getting bigger.”

“I'll take your word on that.” Sheathing his knife, Malvick stepped away and gestured at Ronon. “If she wakes up, you have two seconds to neutralize her, or I will.”

The world dipped in and out and John fumbled for somewhere in the middle. Ronon was there, providing a much needed anchor. “You okay?” the big guy whispered.

“I'm not sure,” John admitted, but a little tension eased out of his shoulders. “And you?”

“I'll live.”

Fixing the crystal array came to him in perfect clarity as if the schematic was a lost file in the hard drive of his mind. He stared at the woman, but didn't question how or why, slowly switching them out in a clouded haze. He leaned on the DHD, the only thing holding him up, and dialed a random address to see if it worked. 

The discharge of a wormhole sent shivers down his spine. “You first,” he told Malvick. There was no way they were taking the man to the alpha site. 

The demon of the Void gazed at the event horizon without his eye-gear and John wondered how amazing it must have looked. “Freedom,” Malvick breathed, then regarded him. “I meant it. I'll help you destroy the Saurin.”

“Maybe. If I need to get a message to you, I'll leave it here.” His words rang false; then again, Malvick didn't need them.

“Remember what I asked you? After one of the balick matches?” John nodded and Malvick smiled. “You're not one. Not like me.” 

Looking at Ronon he held his chin up high. “That day outside the cave with the rock. I could have stood by. Watched the desert claim another, but then I wouldn't have learned the real reason for your motives. Like I said, never met anyone who'd die for another. I didn't understand.” Malvick looked at them both. “Maybe I do now.” With a flash of his teeth, he pressed the controls, dialing an unfamiliar address and walked up the steps. 

Turning around, he took one last look at the Void and disappeared.

John shook from a stimulus and pain overload. “Did I just let a... I mean...” His words were as jumbled as his thoughts. 

“We both let him go,” Ronon whispered.

“At what cost?” 

Resting a hand on John's shoulder, Ronon leaned heavily on him. “We'll leave the dead here. Leave _everything else._ We survived. That's what matters.”

John wasn't sure, the footprints of Medena a large trail over his back. He patted down his pants and pulled out one of the data chips. “Maybe one of these will provide some answers. Found them with the rest of Malvick's stuff.” 

“Maybe.”

John clutched at it, but they both knew that some questions would always be elusive. “Let's go home,” he said, savoring the words. He punched in the sequence to the alpha site, looking down at the woman.

“If that chip does have any information. Maybe we'll come back here.” Ronon's voice was ragged with pain. 

John stepped away from the platform, legs giving out from under him, until Ronon caught him by the shoulders. “I've got ya,” his friend breathed.

It was finally happening. John's throat tightened and he squeezed his eye closed to battle back the emotion. 

Walking toward the glistening pool, Ronon stumbled. John steadied him, taking his friend's long arm and draping it over John's shoulder. Ronon wrapped his other arm around John's waist and they both limped into blue starlight, leaving a nightmare behind.

* * *

Fresh air and clear skies welcomed their stumbled steps and Ronon released a choked sigh. “We're here.” His ryoko was complete, but the journey was far from over. “John?”

Ronon's arm was the only thing between Sheppard and gravity. Ronon cried out when he took the next step and clumsily lowered his friend to the ground, hopping toward the DHD. “We're almost there.”

Staring at controls, he realized he didn't have a way to send his IDC and he growled in frustration. The he remembered an emergency back-up box hidden under one of the nearby boulders. Malvick wasn't the only one with secret supplies. Hobbling on his busted leg, he screamed, forcing his body toward the familiar formation. Using nothing but adrenaline, he shoved the giant rock aside and started digging. Panting, fingers rubbed raw, he located the metal box and entered the numeric code he'd been forced to memorize.

Pulling out the radio, he squeezed the talk button. “Atlantis, this Ronon.”

Silence.

Punching the button again, he screamed, “Answer, damn it! Atlantis, This Ronon Dex!” 

Was the city there? Had it been attacked?

Anxiety squeezed his heart; a war cry built up in the pit of his belly.

_“This is Atlantis. You're using an emergency radio on channel Delta, Charlie. Please repeat your identification.”_

“This is Ronon Dex. I have Sheppard with me. Lower the shield!”

There was the sound of commotion and other voices and Ronon resisted the urge to smash the radio. “Look. Have a security team on stand-by. Bring every Marine to the gate room. I don't care, but we're coming home, so you better lower the damn shield.”

There was a burst of static. _“We're lowering the shield.”_

Battling security protocols and threatening a bodiless voice was a last gasp. Ronon forced weight onto his leg one final time, crying out as fire engulfed the limb. Grabbing Sheppard by his robe, Ronon draped his friend's limp arm across his shoulder and dragged them home.

* * *

Artificial light scraped his eyeballs, blaring alarms assaulted his ears and he clung to the dead weight of his friend, staring defiantly at the dozen P-90s aimed his way. Ronon was breaking, his leg folding under him and still he hung on to Sheppard as he fell onto his ass. It was a swirl of noise, loud and chaotic when he'd been used to silence. The sharp tones slowly faded, and the rush became a single sound.

“Ronon, it's Jennifer. I'm walking toward you.” 

The security detail fanned out as Jennifer approached him with a bright smile, a med kit slung over the shoulder of a freshly laundered uniform. She smelled of powder and chemicals, her face a healthy glow with a hint of makeup. 

Bright eyes widened, then falsely calmed at his appearance. “Hey.” 

Ronon was on the verge of passing out. “Tired.”

His words soothed that tightly controlled expression. “I bet you are.” She glanced behind her shoulder. “Your ride's waiting. Is that okay?”

He simply nodded.

She looked anxiously over at Sheppard. “My team should really take care of him.”

Ronon didn't budge as a pair of gurneys were rolled closer, medical personnel waiting to touch them with smooth skin and too clean hands. Jennifer tentatively reached for his arm, squeezing gently, fingers sliding down to study his pulse. Still he didn't move, as Jennifer used slow, purposeful movements, like he would bite her, and pressed her fingers against Sheppard's neck.

Her frown shook him out of his daze. Panicked at wasting precious time, Ronon practically shoved Sheppard into her arms. “He's really hurt.”

Medical personnel lifted Sheppard onto a gurney, and more helped Ronon onto his own, lifting his legs up. Squeaky wheels, shuffling feet, whispered commands. The bustle of an entire city closed in, rushing panels and rows of lights making him dizzy, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Where are the others?” 

Jennifer dipped down to his ear. “What?”

“Teyla. McKay.”

“They're off-world. Looking for you guys. They're due back anytime.”

His brain flipped off with her words and the slight rocking of the gurney lulled him into a quiet place in the back of his mind.

* * *

He never fell asleep, but teetered on the edge of blackness and the light filtering between his lids. A nurse cut away his clothes, stripping them off his dust-crusted body. Ronon didn't growl, grateful for being freed of his robe, squinting against the too-bright overhead light. 

Hands touched and ghosted his skin; there was a prick in his arm from an IV, and a sting in the other as blood was drawn into two large vials. A nurse caught his gaze, giving him a pretty smile with lips of pale pink and he shivered when she pressed the cold metal stethoscope to his chest.

“Sorry,” she said, blowing on the bell before pressing down again.

He didn't say anything when the BP cuff squeezed around his arm or when a penlight caused his head to pound. Faces blurred into one another as too many bodies became a wall surrounding him. Two sets of hands became four, and when a pair touched his legs, Ronon balled his fists and snarled.

“Hey, I'll take over, Lindsey,” Jennifer said, and the rest of the medical staff disappeared. “How are you doing?”

Ronon didn't say anything, had no idea how to respond. Jennifer scanned the monitors around him, tapped at her PDA, then studied his leg. “We're going to run some imaging scans on you in a few minutes.” She placed a hand on his shoulder with nails free of dirt. “Ronon?”

“What?” His voice cracked. 

“You're going to be okay.”

Ronon's dreads scraped both cheeks; they needed to be cut, his beard trimmed, but it'd take days to rid all the sand from his pores. “I want a shower.”

Jennifer's smile was for real this time. “We'll clean you after we run your tests. Are you injured anywhere else besides your leg?”

Did it matter? The pain had been an overpowering force, the taskmaster of his ryoko. He'd known nothing else.

The infirmary swarmed with people yelling for tests and instruments, voices competing with beeping machines. A half dozen swarmed Sheppard, and Ronon was glad his friend wasn't awake during the mayhem. 

Jennifer stepped in front of Ronon, shielding Sheppard from view while a nurse bustled over, wielding a PDA like it was on fire. “Here are Dex's lab results.”

“Great, go ahead and give him 3 milligrams of morphine on an IV push, okay?”

Words and sounds bombarded Ronon and he felt a tug in his arm, a rush of heat following. 

Another nurse hurried by and handed Jennifer another data pad, her eyebrows forming a V in confusion. “Ronon, there's an unknown substance in Colonel Sheppard's labs. It doesn't appear in your blood work. Do you have any idea what it is?'

Not really, Ronon thought. 

“Ronon, the colonel might need surgery. If he's been given anything, it could cause complications with the anesthesia.”

A third nurse joined the second. Ronon couldn’t keep up with them as they buzzed around him. “There's blood in the colonel's Foley.”

“Get him under the scanner, stat. Page Doctors Graham and Sato,” Jennifer ordered, then turned to Ronon. “If you could tell me what happened, it might---”

“It was pain medicine,” he blurted. “He was in pain. He took it.”

“How long ago?”

Ronon laughed at the question. Jennifer misunderstood and squeezed his shoulder in an act of comfort. “It wasn't enough. It stopped working,” he said. She seemed relieved at the answer, but it was a biting truth. “They jumped him... I...I wasn't--”

“Oh, my God, it's true!”

Feet clattered over, followed by the rank smell of stagnant water. Rodney stood by the gurney, twitchy blue eyes in a dirt-streaked face. “How the hell did you get back?”

“Rodney,” Teyla warned. “We are very glad you're home,” she said, leaning toward him. 

Ronon accepted her grease-streaked forehead, her tears staining his cheeks as he wrapped a hand around her shoulder. “You smell like a swamp,” he chuckled, unable to hide the quiver in his voice. 

“It was a marsh.” Rodney fluttered nearby, eyes bulging. “Oh, my God. What the hell happened to you? When did you eat last?”

Jennifer pushed McKay away. “We need to take care of him, Rodney.” 

“What about Sheppard?” Ronon asked.

Teyla wiped at her eyes and cast a sideways glance at Jennifer. “We have not seen him. We were not permitted.” 

“We felt it best.” Jennifer pulled up the rails of the gurney and more staff swooped in, rolling the equipment beside them.

Rodney and Teyla looked to him for answers and Ronon bit his lip, leaving them with nothing as he was wheeled away.

* * *

A sheet covered John's lower half, thin cotton teasing comfort. The iciness of the wormhole had seeped into his bones, sucked away the last of his soul, and spat him out the other side. Where he'd died. Or he thought he had. But there was no mistaking his pain's furious appetite, chewing on him like a piece of rawhide. Or the frisson of air conditioning on his skin, the vibration of the city through the metal and fabric of the gurney.

“Colonel? Can you hear me?”

John's eyes fluttered, a heavy leathery warmth combating the chill in his veins.

“You're being wheeled into pre-op for surgery. We've given you something to help you relax, okay?”

All he saw were yellow lights, not the constant shine of white hot, or the never-ending twilight. Then there was pinch in his arm and everything dimmed out before he questioned why.

* * *

“Colonel?”

“Colonel Sheppard? Could you please open you eyes?”

“W't?” John moaned. Didn't he just fall asleep?

“There you go. Try to keep them open for me.”

His reactions were a few seconds behind, the room slowly morphing into a blob of soft gray. Smacking raw lips, he was surprised to find a straw hovering nearby.

“You can take a couple small sips.”

Cold water slid down his throat; ice cubes rattled the bottom of the cup. He smiled around the straw, mmmming in happiness.

“I bet you didn't see any ice water where you were.”

His eyes rolled open, awareness creeping in tiny increments and the female voice became Jennifer Keller. “No,” he rasped and swallowed around the awful dryness of his throat. “How did you...”

“Educated guess based on the sunburns and your dehydration. I know you're tired, but I need to monitor your reaction to the anesthesia.” And she pulled out a penlight. “You gave your anesthesiologist a tough time.” 

John rolled his neck, head sinking in the pillow. “Sor'ry.”

“That's alright,” she replied. “Ready? I'm going to check your pupil reaction.”

A stabbing flash of light bore into his left eye, and he was surprised at the blur in his right.

“The swelling in your other eye has gone down enough for the lid to open. I have an ice pack waiting with your name on it. There doesn't appear to be any damage to the cornea, but I'll do a more thorough eye examination in a few days.”

The light triggered fireworks in his head and John hissed, shifting to get away from the obtrusive beam. Keller’s apology filtered through the layer of fog the pain had laid over his brain. Thinking was swimming in an abyss.

“How's Ronon?” Not having him in his line of sight was unnerving.

“We're still working on him.” Seeing his alarm, she quickly added, “He's going to be fine. He'll be facing a long recovery. The first break of his tibia never fully healed properly causing a second stress fracture. He's getting a cast while we speak. Both of you are going to be off your feet for a long while.”

John was gone with _he's going to be fine_ , not really caring about anything else.

* * *

“Colonel?”

John heard his name again and ignoring it didn't make the voice go away. He'd been content in a new in between place, but the voice was insistent, a hand on his shoulder adding to the disruption.

Acknowledging it might silence the damn thing and Keller’s smiling face fuzzed into view. “Hey there.”

“Hey.”

“You checked out on me earlier.”

“Hmmmm.”

“I really need you to stay with me a little longer this time.”

John had other ideas.

* * *

He'd stayed awake during his next bout of awareness, answering stupid questions about his name and rank, laughing when she asked the date. There were a few more trips to the surface and John coasted the real world a few minutes each time before sinking back down. 

His head ached this time around, a dull throb under the haze of narcotics, forcing him awake. Keller had returned, fussing with his IV in what John recognized as a classic stalling technique. Rolling his head he studied his hand cemented by plaster, propped up onto a stack of pillows, his first three fingers cocooned in braces. 

Since he was alive, he might as well tally up the damage. “How am I doin'?”

Keller smiled with her friendly physician's expression. “You have a laundry list of problems, but they'll all heal in time. We had to go in and repair a small tear in your left kidney that was a source of a slow bleed, and a hematoma in your spleen.” Pausing to see if he was still with her, John gave her a nod and she continued. “You have three broken ribs and there are various contusions on your torso, back and face. But the swelling should go down in time.”

Keller's ability to keep a light optimistic tone faded as her eyes drifted across him in sadness. John despised the pity. “And my hand?”

“Doctor Graham is an orthopedic specialist and he didn't think you required any additional surgery. He'll be examining you later, but X-rays showed carpal fractures in your hand and four metacarpal breaks in your fingers, but all the bones have been aligned and splinted.”

“Guess you have me on the good stuff, huh?” His hand felt like a block of wood. “What about...”

“There's a possibility of loss of motion from nerve damage or arthritis after they heal. I'm sorry; we won't know for sure.”

“Thanks for not sugarcoating things.” Keller was giving him that mother hen vibe. “I'm sure you have other patients.”

She was smiling, fumbling for an excuse to stick around. “None that need my attention right now. I could arrange for--”

“Look, Doc, I just want to sleep,” John said. 

“Oh. Okay.” Keller pulled a strand of hair behind her ear. “If you need anything, the call button is on your left side.”

“Got it.”

She made a hasty retreat and John blinked up at a high ceiling of white squares. Buzzing equipment and soft padded soles of people moving outside his curtain was an odd kind of loud from what he'd been used to. A blanket, soft and warm, was draped over his sheet.

It was cozy. 

Strange.

Tracing the stubble of his cheeks he considered asking for a shave and a pang of apprehension shot through him. Maybe later. The pharmacy filtering through his system was a good distraction and he allowed himself to go where it wanted to take him.

“Hey? You awake?”

“No,” John grumbled.

“Answering _are you awake_ with no is a contradiction.”

“Okay, I don't want to be awake.”

“It's polite to open your eyes when having a conversation.”

“I'm not having a conversation.”

“I spent the last eleven weeks searching for you and Ronon. Losing precious sleep. Allowing experiments to fail and the city to go down the tubes. Oh, and Teyla and I spent a whole week trapped with a bunch of people who rode gigantic frogs and spent every waking moment drunk on _kufuku_ flowers.”

“Did you drink any of it?”

“What? No, of course not.”

John forced his eyes open, taking in Rodney's huffy expression. “You should have.”

“Well, I'm sorry if I don't share your adventurous taste in exotic alcohol.” 

Rodney broke off direct eye contact, his gaze sweeping the tiny space between privacy curtains. Unable to look at anything continuously for more than three seconds, he kept stealing glances, eyes straying wide.

“Stop staring.”

“But you look like...you look like...”

“Like I've been marooned in the desert.”

“Before or after your heavyweight title bout with the Terminator? And has Jennifer given you food yet? I mean, have you seen yourself in the mirror?” John bit his bottom lip, tasting blood.

Rodney didn't notice and the pacing and hand gestures began in full force. “We had no idea where the Saurin stashed you. They cut off all ties with us and we searched all their surrounding planets, but there were no life signs. Do you know how long by jumper we had to go on each trip? Nine, twelve, even eighteen hours. _Each way._ ” Rodney took a breath. “There's only a space gate near the Saurin secret base.” 

“I know.”

“Of course you do.” Rodney paced in a tiny path making John dizzy. “How did you escape?”

“Gate on the planet.”

“That's it? What took you so long? Was it guarded?”

“Kind of.”

“What do you mean kind of? Was it broken?”

“Yeah.”

“Which was it? And what's with the one word answers? Did you and Ronon exchange personalities or something?'

“Rodney.”

“What?”

“I'm going to sleep.”

“But...I have a surprise.” There was rustling as Rodney fumbled with something and he pulled out a laptop like a rabbit from a magic hat. “I downloaded all the seasons of _Buffy. V_ the original miniseries. I found _Buck Rogers, Knight Rider_ , and even the _A-Team_ because I think you and Murdock were separated at birth.” 

Rodney looked at John expectantly, and damn it. He wanted to say yes, wanted to lose himself in campy TV Land, but John couldn't. It was too much, too soon. 

“Maybe later,” John offered. 

“Oh.” Rodney's shoulders slumped. “I'll just, you know. Put it on the table beside you. If you change your mind, your music collection is there, too.”

“Thank you,” John whispered.

Rodney's presence loomed like a shadow despite closing his eyes. John couldn't shift onto his side, or pull the blanket over his head. There was a moment of panic that his friend would pull up a chair and actually stay, but a heavy sigh and shuffling of feet signaled Rodney's exit.

And John was alone again.

* * *

Solitude was a pipe-dream. Vital checks. Medication rounds. Screechy equipment carts, talking, the damn ventilation system. His body was disconnected from his mind, mimicking his thoughts.

“I have soup for lunch today, Colonel,” a smiling nurse chirped.

A bowl of broth was placed on his tray and Nurse Happy took a spoonful and held it up.

“Just leave it.”

“I know you're right-handed--”

“I'm good.”

“But...”

“I can eat on my own!”

Nurse Happy flinched, but quietly put the utensil down, voice all sweet. “Okay, Colonel. But if you need any help just hit the call button and I'll be over.”

John felt like a jackass, almost pushing his lunch aside, but even broth had him salivating. Fighting the growing hunger he made himself grab the spoon, not just bring the bowl to his lips to down in one go. It wasn't a complete catastrophe, only a little dribbled on his gown, yet strangely enough, his belly was full before he was done eating. He stared dumbly at the bowl, knowing what lengths he would have gone to for a little tasty soup in that hellhole.

“Knock, knock.”

John glanced up at Keller. “Hey, Doc.”

“Colonel,” Keller addressed with a practiced smile. She did the usual check of the machines before her eyes settled on his meal. “That's not bad. I'd really like it if you ate a little more.”

“Kinda full.”

“I'm sure you are. When you go from a regular diet of meals to a much smaller intake your stomach shrinks. I'll get you up to speed over the next few weeks with higher calorie meals.”

“Does this mean I'll be mainlining desserts?”

“Afraid not. But I hear foods rich with protein, vitamins and minerals are very gourmet.” Her attempt at being upbeat was a dud so Keller did what she could to barrel past it. “You've been deprived of proper nutrition for a long time. Your electrolytes are also all over the place, most of which I can balance in your IV solution, but you'll be drinking plenty of Ensure for the next month at least.”

“Guess a rib-eye and potatoes will have to wait.”

“I think I could arrange that in a few days. Mashed potatoes and applesauce first, then the good stuff. I don't want to shock your body too much, but in time we'll get you healthy again.” And she patted his arm.

Her smile was plastic and John's walls went up full force. “Sounds good. Um, look. I need a favor.”

“Depends what it is,” she said with a twinkle.

“You have my clothes. There's a substance in the pocket. A plant.” Little forget-me needles. “Do you think you could run a few tests on it?”

Obviously his request was confusing. “Um, sure. I can do that.”

Then she launched into stuff about his hand and more scans. A regimen for replacing the pounds he'd lost. In one ear and out the other. 

“Colonel?”

“Sorry. What was that last part?”

“You have a visitor,” Keller announced.

Richard Woolsey approached with a stiff smile and a warm greeting. “Colonel Sheppard, it is good you see.” He glanced at Keller. “Is the colonel up to a conversation?”

“He's lucid, yes,” Keller replied almost protectively. 

He gestured for privacy. “Very well, if you don't mind.”

“Try to keep it brief. He needs plenty of rest and is due for another dose of pain medication.” Keller hovered, leaving only after Woolsey cleared his throat.

Woolsey's mask was firmly in place, perfect and at ease. “Colonel, I know you have had a very...a very rough ordeal. One I could not even imagine. I know your report will be detailed, but I must ask for a preliminary update on the events leading to your and Ronon's imprisonment.”

John explained about the labs, the cloning chambers, the Saurin desire for Atlantis' Wraith research and genetics. How his and Ronon's memories would have been wiped.

“Given the threat of having all intel concerning their genetics program taken from your mind, you decided to destroy their computer database because--”

“Dumma told us all their research was centrally stored in one area. It presented the best target to set them back.”

“In other words, you attacked without orders and destroyed a sovereign government's classified facility.”

“Yes.”

“Even if such an attack would be considered an act of war?”

“Yes.”

Woolsey's expression gave no hint of his reaction. “This was based on your assessment of a military threat to Atlantis despite any hostile or violent acts.”

“It was a first strike decision.” 

Woolsey waited for more, but John wasn't offering anything. “The Saurin contacted us three days after we were removed from their base and informed us that you and Ronon had been convicted of an act of terrorism, and severed all ties. We tried many times to re-establish contact to negotiate for a release.”

John lay there, propped at an angle, grinding his jaw.

“On the planet, were you able to gather any additional details on the Saurin from the other prisoners?”

“There was this one prisoner.” And John stumbled over the word. What was Malvick? Prisoner? Criminal? Mass murderer? “We gathered information about the Saurin, but it was vague, outdated stuff about their abandoned outpost there.”

“And the others?” 

“What others?”

“The ones you were incarcerated with. Were you able to--?”

“We were pretty much on our own.” 

Even the keenest diplomat was unable to hide a flicker of disappointment. 

“Are we....” John thought of the woman they'd left outside the gate and his eyes went wide. “The data chips! Ask Rodney to go over the data chips I had with me. They were in a pocket.” John's heart pounded in his chest. “Don't recall which one, but--”

Woolsey laid a hand on John's shoulder, his eyes nervously eying one of the urgently beeping machines. “We collected everything from your clothes. Dr. McKay is already studying them as we speak.”

“If it has any intel. If you can find out the gate address to the planet. Are there an preliminary plans to investigate---” 

“I'm afraid any operations relating to the Saurin are on a need-to-know basis. I'm sorry.” 

That pissed John off, but he couldn't muster the energy after his mini adrenaline rush. Obviously he'd been shoved aside again. Woolsey didn't make a move to leave, awkwardly remaining, so John gave him an escape. “Did you need anything else?”

“Maybe later,” Woolsey replied. “Get some rest, Colonel. We'll talk more when you're feeling better.

* * *

Ronon's leg lay wrapped from ankle to knee and anytime he tried getting out of bed, tubes pulled and pinched his skin. But there was no walking, no standing. Staff fluttered in and out, aware of his foul mood, talking less anytime they completed a task. He hated the drugs they fed him, preferring the pain and alertness than this spaced-out feeling.

A nurse swept by, cleaning away his empty tray and placing a second helping of red Jell-O and chocolate pudding on the bedtable. He gave her a smile, shoveling into the closest cup, slurping down the cherry goodness, loving every second of pure, sweet bliss on his tongue. The spoon rattled against his front teeth and he quickly put it aside at Jennifer's amused expression.

“Guess you really enjoy Jell-O, huh?”

“Tastes good.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

“Wouldn't mind steak.”

“I'll see if I can arrange that for you tomorrow.”

“Meatloaf's good, too. Pizza, muffins, those Athosian pastry things...”

“Well, your appetite hasn't diminished. I'll try fitting those in with healthy things, but since your new diet is going up to six small meals a day, it shouldn't be a problem.”

“When can I start that?” he grinned. He really, really missed eating. Four years on Atlantis and he'd grown to love stuff with rich tomato sauce, anything stuffed with cheese, or drenched in gravy. Days and nights in the cave he used to dream of cake layered in chocolate and whipped cream. 

“Baby steps. I don't want anything to upset your stomach. Let's get your salt levels and electrolytes in order and then we'll talk.”

“Okay.”

She chuckled. “I wish all my patients were as receptive as you.”

Ronon froze reaching for the pudding. “Sheppard?”

Jennifer averted her eyes and he knew she wasn't supposed to talk about those in her care. It was a stupid rule. 

“I should check on him.”

“You see him a few times a day.”

“He's always asleep.”

“He's recovering from major surgery on top of his other injuries.”

Ronon fidgeted, balling the ends of his blanket. 

Jennifer took his hand. “He's only thirty meters away.” 

That didn't quiet the need to see with his own eyes. Just to be sure. Bad things happened when he wasn't looking. 

“You know if you wanted to talk about things, I have a good ear,” she offered.

He intertwined his fingers with hers, savoring the gentle warmth before slipping his hand away. “Thanks.” Which was his nice way of saying no.

Jennifer rested her hand on the rail. “Colonel Sheppard should only have a few more days in critical care. I was thinking of transferring him over here. I really think he--”

The soft tread of leather on tile signaled a visitor, and Woolsey tentatively walked over. “I'm sorry for the interruption, but the rest of my day is filled with meetings and I wanted a word with you if I could, Dr Keller?”

Jennifer instantly walked toward him. “Of course.”

Turning his attention to the bed, Woolsey offered a polite smile. “I was hoping I could speak with you as well, Ronon. Perhaps tomorrow morning?”

“Sure.” Woolsey had dropped by yesterday when Ronon was more heavily medicated. No doubt wanting some report or another. 

Jennifer pulled aside the curtain and both stepped away. Ronon peeled the foil lid off the pudding cup and devoured it. Lunch done, he was stuck again with nothing to do except the DS game McKay had left him. Picking it up to play the shooting game, he tried ignoring the hushed voices of people who thought they wouldn't be overheard. 

_“How are they really doing?”_

Ronon rolled his eyes at Woolsey's question.

_“You have my full report--”_

_“What's not in the report?”_

Ronon suppressed the urge to crawl out of bed and demand they talk about him in front of his face.

_“Ronon's tough; don't let the leg and weight loss fool you.” Jennifer paused. “But I think he should talk with someone. When two people go through a great trauma together, depending on one another for a long time...well...we've learned very few details of their ordeal other than it was horrific based on their conditions.”_

_“Hopefully, we'll gather those soon. Colonel Sheppard had some type of data chip with him that Dr. McKay is going to brief me on. I'll send you copies of that and their reports when they're turned in. And of course psych evaluations are standard protocol under these circumstances.”_

Smashing the plastic container, Ronon grabbed the metal spoon, aiming over the curtain, hand shaking. But he didn't want to hit Jennifer so instead he bent the utensil, snapping it in two. 

_“I am worried about Colonel Sheppard,” Jennifer whispered._

_“Agreed. He didn't even challenge me during our conversation.”_

_“I'm not a trained psychologist, but he exhibits classic signs of depression.”_

_“Let's walk; I'm expecting a data burst from Stargate Command.”_

Ronon shoved the rolling table aside, chucked his sheets, and glared at the monstrosity of his leg. Growling, he shoved the guardrails down, pressed down on his hands in an attempt to move. Both arms trembled and the room started to spin. 

“Hey? What are you doing?”

Someone touched his shoulder and Ronon swung, catching air.

“Take it easy, it's Lorne!”

“Get off me!”

“Okay, okay, but enough with the jail break. You'll make a mess.”

Breathing hard, Ronon slumped down, totally spent, the IV line tangled up and his bedding all over the floor. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. Just thought I'd visit a friend.” Lorne wore the haggard expression of command under too much crushing weight and was all kitted out for a mission; the only thing missing was his P-90. “I just returned from off-world. This is the first time the two of you have been awake when I've been around. Thought after my post-check up, I'd say hello.”

Ronon stared at the pile of linen that had fallen away. 

Lorne took the opening and picked up the sheets. “Here,” he said dumping a pile on Ronon's lap.

Ronon gathered up the fabric; his eyes drifted over his body barely concealed by the ridiculous gown, muscle tone eaten away, leaving a useless being in his place. “Not in the mood to talk.”

Sighing, Lorne shook his head. “Yeah, that's what the colonel said. Except in fewer words.”

“What kind of mission were you on?” Ronon asked, not looking up.

“Rendezvous with another shady contact.”

“Who?”

“A guy who had information concerning the Saurin.”

Ronon's head jerked up. “About what?”

Lorne tensed, risking a look around. “I can't share the details with you.”

“Not asking to share.” Ronon glared and Lorne glared back. “If you were in this bed, I'd tell you.”

* * *

“You've been terrorizing my nurses,” Jennifer announced with a sigh, pulling aside the curtain.

Ronon glanced up from where he had the DS scattered in pieces. “I want out of this bed.”

“You suffered a stress fracture after your old break, not that it mattered much. The second one was caused by all your walking on the first when your tibia became too unstable.” Jennifer crossed her arms. “Getting up and walking around—”

“Don't want to walk around. Just get me a wheelchair.”

“And I want you to regain your strength. You have more than just a broken leg. You've suffered long-term malnutrition and an infection. If you overdo it and fall, you could break another bone. You've lost fifty pounds and--”

“That can't stop me from sitting in a chair.”

“I'll make you a deal.” She pulled out a data pad. “Stop snapping at my staff. You don't have to talk to them, but no more growling and intimidation.”

“You said this was part of a deal?”

“I'll set up an overhead trapeze for you to do upper body exercises.”

“Cool.”

Jennifer grinned, walking behind the privacy divide and bringing out a wheelchair. “I thought you might want to visit Colonel Sheppard since he's more awake now, but only if you let two of my staff help you into it.”

“And?” Ronon knew she was holding back.

“Doctor Flores is scheduled to have a chat with you later today. Please don't stonewall him.”

“You mean the head shrink?” Jennifer gave him a look and Ronon shrugged. “It's what McKay calls them. Fine. Talked to him before.” After his withdrawal from the enzyme last year, he hadn't had a choice. 

He started to roll down his sheets. “Can I go now?”

“I'm warning you. Colonel Sheppard's been....he's had his ups and downs. Mostly downs,” Jennifer explained, obviously frustrated at being unable to help. 

Ronon eyed his metallic ride out of bed. “Don't worry, I'm used to it.”

* * *

Jennifer pushed Ronon personally through the infirmary, his IV hooked to the back of the chair, but she wisely allowed him to take the last of the journey on his own.

Sheppard was inclined in a sitting position with his eyes closed, a laptop resting on the table next to him. No one had shaved him yet; dark purple bruises with yellow blotches peeked out from his beard. Even resting, he was tense - corded neck muscles, rigid shoulders. 

“You're not sleeping,” Ronon stated. 

“Thought you were one of the staff,” Sheppard replied. He pushed himself up the best he could with a grunt. “Been meaning to see you for a change, but they've been real picky about me moving around.” 

Ronon purposely didn't reply, staring into all the new lines the sun had burned into his friend's face. 

Sheppard's weary expression hardened. “What?”

“Heard you took the blame for attacking the Saurin.” 

“Who told you that?'

Ronon purposefully crossed his arms; he wasn't ratting out Lorne. “Why'd you do it?”

“Because I'm the team leader.” 

“But it was my idea.”

“I made the final decision.”

Sheppard said nothing and Ronon furiously wheeled himself closer. “Damn it! Stop being a stubborn ass! We did it together. Taking all the blame doesn't prove anything.”

“You done? Because I've got a roaring headache and it doesn’t care for people yelling at me.”

Sheppard's complexion was pale and Ronon felt slightly contrite. “Did you mention it to Jennifer?”

Sheppard rubbed his temple one-handed, adjusting his head among the pillows. “She thinks it's the pain meds. Or something. I don't remember.”

“You tell her about--”

“I haven't mentioned a lot of things,” Sheppard snapped. “Not yet.” He dug the heel of his hand into his right eye. “Sorry. Been... I dunno.”

Ronon searched for the braking mechanism, engaging it and getting as comfortable as possible. “Don't wait too long.”

“I won't.” Sheppard watched Ronon settle in for the long haul and let out a breath, but he didn't chase him away. 

It was the cave with long stretches of nothing. “I can't wait to beat the crap out of someone,” Ronon offered. 

“As long as it's not me.”

They didn't talk about the Saurin or the desert. Not today.

* * *

John's mom had died of cancer. She'd never told him of her illness until it was too late. He'd suspected something with all the doctors’ visits and growing weakness, and that expensive wig never felt real.

When she passed away in her bedroom, he'd never accepted it. 

Mitch and Dex had died when John was on another black op. Their coffins were empty because there wasn’t enough of their remains to fill them. 

A man whose name he'd never been told was murdered inside a tent while John stood outside. After the screaming had ended, Akram placed the informant's head on a spike for all to see.

During one of his few medivac missions, John transported the body bags of over thirty-two men, and deep down, he wondered if there was ever anything he could have done to prevent at least one of them. 

Holland's chopper crashed when John was sleeping after two back-to-back missions. Holland’s crew testified at John's hearing, but by then, John didn't care about the outcome. Apparently his long career saved him from a complete discharge; in time he'd be forced to retire. 

He really did love Antarctica; no one died there. In fact, he never got to know anyone and preferred it that way.

The tally of dead earned a new name on the very first day of his new life and the hits kept on rolling month after month. Carson. Elizabeth. Every fallen Marine under his command and civilian he'd been responsible for. Seventy-two in all. 

He’d relived every death in their cave. Reevaluating, fixating on what-ifs, doing all the stuff he wasn't supposed to. He’d broken the rules he'd lectured his men on when it came to losing people in battle. 

He’d never expected to be alone with his thoughts for so goddamned long. All the crap he'd believed was long buried had nowhere to hide.

John sat in the chair across from his bed, shaking in pain and exhaustion from walking twenty steps with two giant orderlies. Another migraine took up residence behind his eyes, causing everything to glow with strange halos. He sat there, staring at the pain medication machine, fingers resting on the button, gazing longingly at it. Not for the buzzing tingle it did to his body, but for what it did to his brain.

“You wanted to see me, Colonel?” Keller asked. “Feeling rough from your earlier stroll?”

John grunted. “Look, I want to get rid of this thing.”

“You don't want your PCA pump?”

“No.”

“John, I already cut back your regimen of morphine. Twice. It's the reason for the pump since you're weren't happy otherwise. If the body's in pain, then it doesn't heal. You don't need the stress.”

“What I don't need is to be hooked up to a happy dispenser,” John growled.

Keller wasn't having any of it. “It's only been three days.” 

“Really? That many? I couldn't tell.” 

“Would you like a clock? It might help you acclimate to a normal night and day cycle?”

John really wished he wasn't talking to a sensible person. “I'd end up counting the second hand.”

Pulling up a chair, she took a seat, all the _I'm the doctor, I'm in charge_ slipping from her expression. “Want to tell me what's really bothering you?”

“No.”

“Then the PCA machine stays, including the automatic dose it dispenses.”

John grabbed a glass of water, unable to resist swirling it around a few times, drinking it slowly, eye on the full pitcher on his table. He finished the glass even if he wasn't that thirsty and carefully poured another one. He did this all day. Drinking all the water he could stand and watching someone bring him another full pitcher only minutes later. “Did you ever examine those plant fibers I asked about? The ones in my robe?”

“I collected the dust in your pocket, enough for an initial analysis. This was the pain medication you took when you were attacked?”

John averted his eyes, studying the floor. “Pain medication. No, it was an appetite suppressant. Part of the local economy.” 

Her eyebrows rose up in surprise. “And you used this before you were injured?”

There were twenty-three tiles in the floor by his feet. “The first few weeks were bad. Ronon was hurt. We had no food, no water. I took it to keep the hunger pains at bay. I still ate,” he said defensively. “If I got too weak, I wouldn't have been much use to Ronon.”

“Of course.” 

He wiggled his broken fingers, riding the clash between pain and that muted heaviness.

She reached over to still them and pulled her hand back at the last second. “You shouldn't move those.”

John laid them on the armrest. “Orris. That's what they called it. It was used to---the prisoners used it to--”

“Escape?”

“To get high,” John corrected. He locked eyes with her this time. “They smoked it.”

Keller's expression was perfectly even. “And you didn't smoke it?”

“No, I chewed them.” She had that thinking face and John was pin wheeling. ”What?”

“There's a metabolic difference between orally ingesting certain chemical compounds and smoking them.”

“What does that mean?”

“In your case? I'm not sure.”

* * *

Typing with your non-dominant hand while a guy chiseled the inside of your skull with a needle was agony; realizing that three months of your life were made up of death and killing, well, John didn't go there. It was depressing whatever the conclusion. Hitting send didn't lift any great burden off his shoulders; if anything he felt worse.

“Am I disturbing you?”

“Yes,” John replied without thought. 

“Why?”

“I'm sorry, Teyla.” John really was, closing the laptop and pushing it away. What was with him snapping at people all the time? “I'm not good company.”

“That's my job, not yours.” Teyla brought her own chair and put it next to the bed, sliding into it. “I have brought you some tea for your headache.”

“That obvious, huh?”

She pulled out a canteen bound in brown leather, pouring some into his water cup. “Sorry that I cannot serve you formally from a tea set, but carrying one from my room would prove a challenge.” Pausing, Teyla tilted her head. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” John lied, unable to tear his gaze from the worn homemade canteen. 

He took the cup despite the slight tremble in his hand and drank the spicy sweet liquid. 

“Hopefully it will ease your head.”

Teyla's hair was a vibrant swirl of browns and gold. When she leaned over to remove the cup, strands fell away from her face and John was struck by the sudden need to touch them. “May I?” he asked, hand hovering.

“Go ahead.”

Sliding his fingers through the strong flowing locks, he whispered. “Thank you.” But it meant so much more than those mere words. Teyla knew better than to respond, thank God, and John's hands strayed to his own recently shampooed hair and down his bearded face. 

“I see they cut your hair.” She smiled. “Perhaps you would like me to bring your razor? I know you have not been allowed to get up and take a shower yet.”

“Helen gives me a sponge bath.” Helen, who was the oldest nurse on staff.

“Then I'll bring it next time,” she answered brightly.

“Don't,” John blurted more forcefully than intended. 

“You do not wish to shave?”

“No, I'm saving it for later.” He gave her a smile that never reached his eyes.

Teyla responded by enveloping him with her arms, digging her face into his shoulder. “We missed you both so much, John.”

His whole body stiffened, but her warm, tight embrace would not give in to his defenses and John allowed himself to accept the moment without guilt. His wall gave in just a little.

* * *

“Do you know the difference between hunger and appetite?” Keller inquired without preamble on her next round to visit him.

It sounded insensitive, but John was too perplexed to care. “Um.”

She pulled up the vacant chair Teyla had left last night. “Appetite isn't exactly hunger, but rather an interest in eating. Hunger is a physical sensation. A growling or empty stomach and over time, headache, shakiness, decreased concentration.”

“Okay.”

“Then there's satiety, the feeling of fullness which triggers our desire to stop eating. Appetite, hunger, and satiety are governed by the digestive system and hormones. The body can sense things physically, like whether the stomach is distended or the intestines are stimulated. It's a complex feedback loop for hormones -- when one goes up, another might go down.” Keller was geared up, hoping for a reaction. John had nothing. “The orris. It triggers the hormones that control that desire for food and a false feeling of being full.” 

John wasn't in a waiting mood. “And the punch line?”

“Remember when I said that drugs metabolize differently based on consumption?”

“Vaguely.”

“When orris is inhaled, it's the perfect appetite suppressant because of its effects on those particular hormones. As a solid, it inhibits the NMDA receptors in the brain.” Keller was on a roll, throwing out words and explanations in excitement. “I ran several computer simulations once I plugged in its unusual chemical makeup. It's quite complex. The effects seem to take place mainly in the hippocampal formation and in the prefrontal cortex and...”

“Doc?” John rubbed at his eyes. “Could you bottom line it for me?”

“Oh, of course. Sorry.” She blushed. “Evidence suggests the solid form of orris impedes the memory process based on the bonds it attaches itself to.” She cleared her throat. “The short version: ingested, orris causes a type of sensory overload to the brain more associated with chemical reactions seen in schizophrenia and near-death experiences.”

John's eyes widened. “I don't remember anything like that.”

“It's all theoretical, sorry. Were you...um, taking a hundred grams at a time?”

“I don't know. They were in needle form.”

“Like pine needles?”

“Something like that.”

“About fifty?”

John's forehead scrunched up. “Fifty? No, more like ten. Twenty tops.” Okay maybe more when he was in the Void. 

Keller's eyes got wide and round in alarm. “Several times a day?”

“No,” John snorted, then sobered. “I'm not sure. We didn't know what a day was. I only took them when…” He clamped his mouth shut.

“Colonel?”

Blinking, it was John's turned to be embarrassed. “I can't say. I was never given more than a hundred needles at once and that seemed to last a long time.”

Checking his pulse out of some nervous tic, she asked, “Are you feeling any side effects from not consuming them?”

“No... Maybe the headaches?”

Her face relaxed in relief. “Your vitals have been stable the last couple of days. I'll run more lab tests on the orris. With this new information we'll be monitoring you more closely and if the need arises, begin a detox program.”

But the not knowing for sure would eat away at him. “Do you think you could do a more detailed analysis. To be sure?”

“Sure. It'll take a few days. But I'll let you know. And I'll need to inform Doctor Flores.” As if sensing his feelings about that, she quickly added. “Of course since you're seeing him later today, you can tell him yourself. Addiction comes in two forms. Physical and...”

“Psychological,” John finished. 

Like his brain wasn't conflicted enough.

* * *

Staring up at the overhead trapeze Jennifer had installed, Ronon considered what number of exercises to do as his fingers traced his favorite set of blades Teyla had brought him. Jennifer did everything in her power to give him the freedom he desired despite his impeded mobility. Frequent strolls in his wheelchair around the infirmary and the surrounding halls. Chatting with Sheppard when he wasn't conked out on pain meds or in one his 'moods', and frequent visits with Teyla and McKay kept the caged-up feeling to a minimum. 

But having his knives gave him an odd sort of touchstone. He missed them, missed the intimacy of sharpening them and the strength they lent. There was security at wielding such weapons, the bond at having forged them by hand or earned them in battle. They were markers in history; each one told hundreds of stories. Some people collected blades as war trophies, but a weapon should be used in combat, not displayed. 

“Planning a raid?” McKay stood outside the curtain, hands clasped behind his back, bobbing from his toes to the balls of his feet. “Because unless your wheelchair is motorized, after you kill, lemme see, one, two...ah, all eight poor defenseless nurses, you'll be out of weapons, thus a sitting duck.”

Ronon didn't even smile, tossing a knife from one hand to the other. “Don't need a raid if I have a hostage.” 

McKay acting indignant used to annoy Ronon, but he’d missed that huffy face. Even if he'd never admit it to the man.

“Ha, ha, I'm your slave labor for today,” he grumbled, shifting behind the privacy curtain and returning with a wheelchair. “You're supposed to wait for the Jolly Green Giant and his pal to help you.”

Ronon did wait for the help, surprising the both of them, but no way was he admitting the difficulty of shuffling from the bed to the chair without the aid. “Where are we going?”

“Woolsey wants to have a meeting, and since Colonel Grouchy has more restrictions for moving than you, I was told to fetch you.” McKay clapped his hands together, bouncing on his feet. “I swear it's hard to get good help these days.”

Ronon wrapped his blades up in a swatch of purple cloth, setting them aside on his table with the books he never read and the spare laptop Zelenka had dropped off. 

“Finally.” McKay scrambled aside as a male and female nurse came over, removing the IV first. “I'm an unpaid chauffeur, not manual labor.”

The rest of any rants was lost in the painful, tedious process of transferring to the chair, and by the time Ronon was settled, leg aching, face broken out in sweat, he was too busy being pissed to ask what the meeting was about.

* * *

Lorne and Teyla were sitting in chairs around Sheppard with Woolsey at the foot of the bed. “Oh good, we're all here now.”

“I've got it,” Ronon grouched, taking over the duty of wheeling himself around and parking next to the IV stand. 

Sheppard was sitting up, hands in his lap, eyes darting about for the hidden dagger. Paranoia was contagious and Ronon was fully on alert, fingers denting the leather handles.

“The reason for this meeting is to discuss the military strike against M1P-346,” Woolsey began.

“Where?” Ronon asked.

“That is the designation of the planet on which you and Colonel Sheppard were imprisoned.”

Sheppard’s face went from confusion to shock. “You got information from the data chip?”

“After three non-stop nights of analysis all we managed was the gate address,” Rodney sighed, dark bags under his eyes a testament to the long hours. “We're still working our way through the rest, but most of the information is encoded and we don't have a key.” 

“But we're attacking it?” Sheppard questioned, impatiently waiting for an answer. 

“Two of our people were held captive by a government that severed all diplomatic ties. Stargate Command and the IOA didn't want to take chances with a society with the technological level of the Saurin. In the last three months we began intelligence gathering operations on the possible threat.” Woolsey looked to the group, none of them surprised at the announcement. “I'll allow Major Lorne to take it from here.”

Lorne turned his chair around and straddled it. “Over the last twelve weeks, using our allies and various contacts, we met with three different sources whose intel corroborated one another's.” 

McKay rolled his hand in a hurry up gesture. “The Saurin are like the Travelers except without ships. Well, they have ships, but they don't live in them.”

“As I was saying,” Lorne growled as he shot McKay an irritated look, “it seems the Saurin go around the galaxy gathering technology and research to enhance their society. Very few worlds have much to offer, but there are enough abandoned Ancient facilities lying around to pique their interest.”

“If they're so powerful, why don't they attack?” Ronon asked.

“We've determined that the Saurin have several small bases throughout the galaxy. For whatever reason, we're not sure. Maybe they split from one another or it could be a way to safeguard their limited numbers,” Lorne answered.

“We were told there weren't a lot of them around,” Ronon offered.

“They're a dying race,” Teyla spoke up. “They're very old and cannot keep their population going. Part of their quest is to advance their numbers.”

“Because they're tainted.” Sheppard spoke up. Everyone looked to him and he shrugged. “Makes sense. They've been experimenting on themselves, cloning over and over again; bet the gene pool is pretty messed up.”

“Then why don't they take what they want? Use their military to conquer worlds that get in their way. They have space ships.” Ronon scanned those gathered. 

McKay smirked. “Because they're an insane hippy cult with a limited population. They're all about enhancing their race. Becoming godlike, hear that before? But they won't stoop low enough to actually kill anyone. It'd taint their search for the perfect being they've sought to become.”

Rolling his eyes at Lorne's stern look, he continued. “They're master con artists. When they target a city or world, they profile them and present themselves as the perfect ally. Great healers, environmentalists, the most agriculturally whatever. They parade their advancements in the field in exchange for what they want. When we were on their base, they dazzled me with Ancient tech and I'm sure gave you,” he stared at Sheppard, “the speech on how all their knowledge would improve our military.”

Sheppard's eyes went hooded. “Yeah, that was the pitch at first.”

“They worship the Wraith,” Ronon growled.

“Not worship. Admire. As in the Wraith are the perfect lab rats to base what they want to recreate in themselves, minus the killing.” 

“And we're striking the prison planet because?” Sheppard prompted.

“To free the political prisoners imprisoned there,” Woolsey answered.

Ronon had almost forgotten he was in the room. Sheppard had a vacant expression as he reached for cup of water. “Political prisoners?”

“Yes, sir,” Lorne replied. “The Saurin made several alliances with worlds, but not everyone in power shared the enthusiasm as the rest of the government. The Saurin arranged for voices of dissent to disappear, including several in the military. The contact I spoke to said his brother and uncle were vocal in their distrust of sharing Ancient texts they had stored on their planet. The next day during a meeting with a Saurin envoy, they never returned.”

“I've heard the same stories,” Teyla spoke. “People in ruling councils disappearing.”

Sheppard shook his head. “But the people there, they were...they were all criminals.”

“You and Ronon weren't criminals,” McKay pointed out.

_They had been_ , Ronon thought. 

“Perhaps the Saurin have criminals? People who do not share their common belief? Or even violent members in their society,” Teyla suggested.

“Or they bring criminals in from their trading partners,” Woolsey theorized. “If they have a planet to dump them on, it'd save their allies resources.”

Sheppard sipped his water. “And the military op is to free them?”

“This is a massive intelligence operation,” Woolsey explained. “According to your and Ronon's reports, many of the prisoners have conformed to the rough aspect of their confinement. I believe granting them a way home and providing them with supplies would give us ample sources of knowledge.”

“What about the Shan'ka?” Sheppard sat up even straighter. “They have access to a lot of unknown technology.”

“We're going to avoid them for now,” Lorne answered. “Based on your intel, they're centralized in one area. We'll focus on the civilian population surrounding their compound.”

“How many squadrons?” Sheppard asked, his face hard.

“Five squads of Marines,” Lorne answered.

Sheppard shook his head. “Not enough to control the population and any supplies you'll bring.”

Lorne nodded. “The Daedalus is arriving tomorrow morning. We'll funnel people to a temporary alpha site. Captain Vasquez's squad is setting up a small tent city to house and feed them while we conduct interviews. We're hoping to compile a list of Saurin allied planets, base locations, and any intel on their defensive capabilities.”

“And the prisoners? If their own government kicked them out, where do they go?” Ronon caught Sheppard's gaze; they both wanted to know the same thing.

“We have found different towns and villages willing to take them until their situations change,” Teyla replied confidently.

“A lot of them are thugs and killers.” Ronon leaned forward, elbows on his armrests. “Just gonna cut them loose?” 

Sheppard's jaw tightened and Ronon realized what he had just said. 

Woolsey held his chin up high. “It's a good question. We have no way of determining who is a real criminal and who is a legitimate political dissident. We don't have the resources to keep long-term prisoners and there is no centralized police force or penal system in which to place them. But, we're willing to take the chance to obtain intel that could have an impact on the rest of the galaxy.”

“What about the next round?” Sheppard stared at the surrounding perplexed faces. “We rescue the current ones. What about the next set the Saurin dump?”

“Let's worry about those who are there now,” Woolsey replied. 

Ronon listened without further comment to the rest of the mission details, impressed that they were amassing this type of intelligence operation. Hopefully he'd be fully healed by the time any military ops were scheduled after studying the findings. 

The meeting went on about possible scenarios and outcomes and finally finished, but only Woolsey excused himself. 

“You guys have been busy,” Sheppard commented dryly.

“We never stopped looking for either if you,” Teyla reassured them, her face creased from months of stress. “When we exhausted all attempts to negotiate with the Saurin, Mr. Woolsey and Major Lorne drafted a recon operation.”

Lorne looked straight at his CO. “We didn't want to be caught with our pants down with the Saurin. While digging for intel on them, we were searching for any information on your whereabouts.”

“That's how we stumbled upon one of Teyla's contacts who knew a person who knew a person. When we finally had a meet, we learned about the disappearances of vital people in ruling tribes or whatever.” Rodney flapped his hand.

“And you waited to tell us ‘til now?”

Sheppard's question hung heavily in the air. 

McKay shuffled his feet and Lorne stiffened to attention, but it was Teyla who answered. “We were under orders not to.”

Ronon might have growled; Sheppard sank into his bed. 

“Woolsey wanted your reports before being debriefed. He was afraid your account might be influenced,” Lorne defended, but he hadn't been for it. Ronon could tell.

“Jennifer wanted both of you to have a chance to recover before being thrown into planning another mission.” Teyla walked toward Ronon, placing herself between him and Sheppard. “None of us wanted to keep things from you.”

“You did what you had to.” Sheppard's voice was tired. “I understand.”

It didn't matter what anyone else said after that; Sheppard had shut his ears to the outside world, huddling deep into his own.

* * *

John's head pounded with the fierceness of a power drill on its race to the back of his skull. The words _political prisoners_ had batted around the soft matter called his brain all night and into the morning. 

Where the fuck were they? He'd never seen anyone of the sort. Or did he see what he wanted to? What'd been easier.

“You ready, Colonel?”

“As ever,” he muttered. 

John was eager for a chance to clear his mind, the promise of a shower the right prescription for his aching head. Keller had temporarily taken out the IV that morning, promising he'd lose it for real in a few days in exchange for vitamin pills and his continued consumption of small meals and that awful Ensure. The only consolation to his new and improved diet was a steady supply of ice cream.

“I taped plastic over your incision site, but that doesn't mean you can go splashing around like a duck,” Jana, the day nurse, fussed. She was a feisty one, brown hair pulled into a bun, always humming a tune. “Same goes for your hand. There's a chair in the middle of he shower. If you get tired, sit and relax.

“Yes, ma'am.”

Jana parked him outside the facility, giving the string on the back of his gown a tug and untying it. This was a step toward normalcy and he rose to his feet and walked toward the stall, careful not to jar his ribs. The shower head was a big shiny thing of goodness and he turned the knob more than halfway, savoring the pour of solid warmth. 

He allowed the spray to splash him in the face and braced all his weight on left arm, allowing rivulets of water to run down his back and between his shoulder blades. Heaven was mist and steam and all his knotted muscles turned to dough. It was a purifying thing, allowing the heat to boil, his body uncoiling into putty. John's body went lax and when standing was too much effort, he melted into the chair.

The need for conservation lost meaning in a wall of vapor and John sat there, basking in a complete waste of resources. He scrubbed with a washcloth, rubbing his chest, careful of all his sore spots, and between the sharp angles of his ribs. 

Balling up the washcloth, he stared transfixed as an avalanche of sand and dirt swirled between his toes, turning into red eddies down the drain. 

Doctor Flores would definitely want you to discuss this with you, John. 

He was home, damn it! There wasn't time for this crap. Ronon was right; he had to leave everything all behind. 

Business as usual.

* * *

Jana dried him off efficiently, taking his elbow and supporting him as he settled back into his wheelchair. “Thanks,” he breathed.

“Any longer and I was going to send out the Coast Guard,” she said, wheeling him back. 

John smiled at that, the little spark fading as he spotted Lorne waiting for him by his bed. 

Jana set the brake on the wheelchair and pulled down the sheets. “I'll be back with your meds, Colonel.” 

He sat carefully on the bed, gingerly pulled his legs up, and tugged his blanket over his middle. Damp hair sank into the pillow and he relished the pliancy, eyes heavy with exhaustion. 

“At ease, Major.”

Lorne relaxed his tight posture, but there was a glint in his eye that John recognized as pure adrenaline. “Sir, I wanted to inform you that the mission is scheduled in the next seventy-two hours.”

“That soon?”

“Yes, sir. The IOA is worried that its been months since our last contact with them and won't wait for McKay to finish studying the chips since he can't guarantee it'll provide us with anything useful. Ronon drew us a map of the area and we're taking a cloaked jumper to scan the planet. We'll take the data and compare it to Ronon's info before launching the mission.”

“The water transports came on a three day cycle; there's no telling if you'll get discovered,” John warned. 

“Agreed. The Daedalus will be far enough back to keep from being discovered while we make a sweep.” 

Lorne filled him in on more details, his brain battling the need for more and the desire to shut it all out. “Be careful. A show of force will control the prisoners, but the Shan'ka are a dangerous element.”

“We'll have cloaked jumpers in the air for backup and we can be beamed out in a hurry.” 

The warmth of the shower receded into soft sheets and familiar aches and pain started nibbling on John’s bones. 

“We'll be on radio silence throughout the duration since we don't know the Saurin’s ability to monitor our broadcasts.” There was a commotion outside and Lorne turned around at the noise that quickly dissipated. “There's one more thing, sir.”

“What's that?”

“Do you want us to leave a signal or note for that guy, Malvick?”

John sat up, fingers digging into the bed. “No.”

“If he has inside information, shouldn't we---”

“Negative.” John's voice was even, fingers tracing the scar on his bicep. “He's not returning to his cage.” He snagged his pitcher, listening to the sweet sounds of water filling his cup. “I'm sure you have a long night ahead of you.”

“Yes, sir. Wish you were coming with us.”

Lorne and Jana traded places as he left, the somber soldier becoming a peppy nurse. “Here are your comfort meds,” she smiled, setting the tiny paper cup down and dashing out. 

John remembered that day at the gate, of covering the woman with his body, daring Malvick to kill him. She might have been saved if he'd pushed Woolsey more about their plans. He wouldn't have been left out of the loop and maybe the mission might have been moved up.

Shoulda coulda woulda. 

He gave his _comfort pills_ a glance and tapped them onto the table, playing with the first one with his pinky, before curling his fingers around them and crushing them in his palm.

* * *

Keller stood by his bed, lab coat covering a set of surgical scrubs. “You wanted to see me?” 

John plucked at the end of his blanket, the seam unraveling into a single thread. “Catch you at a bad time?” 

“No, not at all. I was done with surgery and was working on my post-op notes when I was told you wanted to talk.” 

She didn't say a word about the destruction of the linen. 

“I need to get out of here for a while.”

“John--”

“It's been over a week and walking around the infirmary's not cutting it.” Or he was going to pry apart his heart monitor using utensils. 

“What did you have in mind?”

He blinked. That was too easy. “I want to leave. I won't go far, but I need to,” his eyes drifted around his curtains, “need to be away from all of this.” Keller looked thoughtful, but she was conflicted. “I walked all over a damned desert and through a mountain to get here. I can walk around on my own.”

“I know, Colonel. I want you to heal, but I won't let this feel like another prison. How far do you want to go?”

John needed to wander about without borders. “I want to see the ocean.” 

“I can do that.”

She surprised him again. “You talk to Flores or something?” John had been crawling the walls during their last session. 

“You spent most of your time in a cave. I'm sure sitting in bed all day surrounded by privacy curtains is a change in color, but not amount of space.” Keller smiled. “Ronon's been pretty antsy. I get an ear full.”

John remembered being closed in by darkness, of doing push-ups and ignoring Ronon's screams of anger. 

“Colonel?”

“I just want away from here.” With a nod at her duds, he gave a wan smile. “With scrubs preferably.”

“I'll get Jana to help you out with the gown, and I'll take you wherever you want within reason of the infirmary.”

“But?”

“I'll give you only a half an hour of alone time.”

“Two hours.”

“One.”

“One and you take a radio that you _will_ answer when I call. The second you don't respond, you're right back here.”

“Deal.”

Keller was aglow in victory. “I'll return once you change.”

“Thanks, Doc. And um...” John found an interesting part of the floor. “Did ever get that analysis back?”

“I did.” Her smiled faltered. “I'll download it to your PDA for your review.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

Ronon sat on the edge of the bed, his plastered leg a cumbersome anchor that he fought the urge to smash against the metal frame. His wheelchair was stashed behind one of the machines and he estimated how many steps he could take before reaching it. Sliding down onto his good leg, he was about to hop the distance when he heard a loud cough.

“Did you need some help?”

Busted.

Ronon gave an impish grin at Teyla, sitting back down, swinging his good leg. “I was just...you know.”

“Going to walk on your broken leg against Jennifer's orders and set your healing back because you couldn't wait until tomorrow morning for your release.” Teyla strolled over and pulled the wheelchair out, steering it toward the bed. 

“I know how to walk on crutches. Jennifer won't give them to me,” he complained.

“Perhaps it is because you'll leave?”

“I don't need to stay here anymore.” Ronon held up his arms to prove his point. “Don't even have an IV.”

“I trust in Jennifer's judgment about what you need.” Teyla leaned on his bed, watching him with keen eyes. “When I was a prisoner of Michael’s, I stayed in a cell all day for weeks except for the time he insisted I dine with him or gave me a... checkup,” she said distastefully. “He'd allowed me access to a limited part of the ship, but I stayed in my cell in protest. I know our situations were widely different, but I understand about feeling trapped.”

Ronon swallowed, thanking her with his eyes for the understanding. 

The last few days he'd felt useful. Needed. Helping plan the mission with Lorne gave him a purpose than he'd been robbed of inside the cave. Now he had other things he needed to do. 

Sliding off her perch on the bed, she patted the leather wheelchair seat. “Where would you like to go?”

The shooting range, the gym, the mess hall. 

“How about one of the piers?”

Teyla helped Ronon down, angling the chair for him to take a seat. “It is a bit of a walk.” 

“That's the point.”

“Very well. I have to gear up for the mission, but I will take you out there and will inform one of the staff where we are going, so they can help you back.”

He grabbed her wrist. “Be careful.”

Taking both hands into her own, she brought them to her mouth for a kiss and placed them over her heart. “I will. Promise.”

Smiling, Ronon covered her hands with his larger ones and let them drop. “Maybe we should ask Sheppard if he wants to come.”

“It seems both of you have the same need to escape your beds. Jennifer personally escorted him to one of the sitting areas the botanists landscaped a few months ago.” Teyla was a sly one and Ronon didn't need to see her expression to understand her meaning. “We could say hello to him if we ran into him.”

Ronon realized if he disagreed, they'd accidentally stumble across Sheppard on the way. He pretended not to have come to this conclusion. “Sounds good.”

* * *

There were not many people in the halls in the middle of the day; most didn't give Ronon much attention, and the Marines were masters at discretion. The hallways were the arms and legs of a sprawling city. Alive and loud.

Teyla was a silent force behind him and she waved her hand over the door sensor, humid air smacking Ronon in the face. A row of shrubs lined a dirt path surrounded by large patches of short thick grass and potted trees. The soil was only a few inches thick over the metal roof of one of the science labs and the large towers cast shadowy pockets of shade.

“It is very windy out,” Teyla commented.

“Feels good.”

They were walking on top of one of the lower buildings on the edge of the city, moisture feeding the steady breeze. Ronon had the urge to run. Run with the wind and follow it to the crests and waves below. He spotted an empty wheelchair near a set of benches and Ronon searched for its missing occupant, finding Sheppard by a newly constructed railing. 

Teyla squeezed the top of his shoulder. “I will see you when I return.” 

“Count on it.” He gave her a sincere smile as she walked away.

* * *

The wheels crunched loudly over the dirt, but Sheppard didn't wave a hand in greeting, or turn around. Ronon parked the chair and hobbled to his feet to lean against the railing next to him. The wind was fierce, blowing his dreads in all directions. Ronon licked his bottom lip, tasting salt. “Storm's coming.”

“Been watching it brew for a while.” Sheppard closed his eyes, enjoying the nice breeze. “Hope we get a lot of rain.” 

“Jennifer will kill us if we get wet.”

“She send you to come get me? I have twenty minutes left.”

“Nope. Was sick of the smell in there. Wanted to go outside.”

Sheppard stood from his slouch and shuffled toward a pair of benches and sat on the closest one with a groan. Ronon took the bench across from Sheppard, staring at lush bushes with yellow and purple blossoms, struck by their dazzling colors. The delicate petals were silky smooth and he rubbed the pads of his fingers over them. Pretty wasn't a word he thought of often, but it was the most fitting description. 

“I hear Keller's springing you in the morning.”

Ronon nodded and considered plucking the flower, but thought better of it, tearing his gaze away. He was getting out a day before Sheppard's release into normal care. “And you?” 

“Not sure. Few more days. I'm supposed to rest more.” Sheppard rolled his eyes. It didn't appear as if he'd slept much since their return. His healing black eyes blended in with his bruised and bearded face. “I think I could sleep out here, though. Watch the sun go down.”

“Under the stars.” Maybe Ronon would escape and witness it. 

“The mission to the planet's going to begin soon.” Sheppard clutched a data pad in his lap. “Two days of radio silence. There'll be no way of knowing what's going on.”

“And if we did, we couldn't do anything about it.” 

“McKay and Teyla are going to be with Lorne.” Sheppard's knuckles went white. “I should, I...” He gritted his teeth. 

Ronon would trade his whole knife collection for a spot on one of those teams, except his mission objective would be of a different nature. A wind gust scattered blossoms in wild streams of purple and yellow, Sheppard oblivious to its beauty.

Ronon pushed off from the bench and hobbled over to him. “You tired of brooding?”

Sheppard's head shot up. “What?”

Ronon gestured at Sheppard's death grip on his PDA. “We're outside. Away from noise and people, breathing fresh air and you're about to break that thing in two.” 

Sheppard tapped the data pad to his knee. “I asked Keller to analyze the orris left in my robe.”

“And?”

“It's inconclusive.”

“What did you want it to read?” Sheppard said nothing. “You don't know, do you?”

“At the water tanks, I did what had to be done. But it still ate away at me.” Sheppard played with the metal braces on his broken fingers. “Then after a while, I didn't feel anything at all. But that's what you do. Separate yourself to get the job done. Still didn't make it right.”

Ronon sat back down, letting Sheppard talk. 

“The days disappeared and the dead piled up. And I didn't know who I was anymore. Kind of like...” Sheppard scratched at his beard, hand straying to the back of his neck. “After the balick matches, I didn't care if I ever found myself again. I wanted to just forget. Forget everything.”

“The orris helped you forget?”

Sheppard struggled to his feet, his robe spilling to the ground, sharp lines and knotted muscle showing through his scrubs. “I thought it did. In large doses, it can turn you into a lump of clay. A freaking zombie.”

Ronon didn't understand, but Sheppard kept pacing. “But I wasn't taking it in large doses and Keller doesn't know what it can do in smaller ones.” 

Ronon watched Sheppard bleed off all his energy, wrapping an arm around his middle, falling back onto the bench. Sweating and breathing hard, he hissed when his hand brushed up against his middle, mumbling about not knowing what had been real. 

Ronon had seen and talked to Kell, had been haunted by visions of his mother. 

“We all have walls.” Ronon bent forward, taking in the physical damage to Sheppard's body, getting a feel for how badly it went on the inside. “Sometimes they get real high and we can't tear them down. Maybe the orris affected you more, maybe it didn't. Does it matter?”

“Yes, damn it!” Sheppard balled his other fist. “How much of it was really me? I did so many things...I...I even gave up when the Jad jumped me. I waited to die.”

Only cowards bow to defeat, Kell had preached. 

Ronon had submitted twice in his life. “When I was sick, I almost smashed my skull with a rock.” He could still feel its weight in his hand. “If Malvick hadn't come by...”

Sheppard's eyes narrowed; anger, regret, guilt flashed within their conflicted depths. 

Ronon's mother had been dedicated to the art of expression, capturing passion, values. What was art, but a testament to life?

“Do you count them? All those you've killed?” he asked. 

War was the burden of soldiers. Those willing to take life in order to preserve it. 

“No.” 

“What about those you failed?” Sheppard avoided Ronon's eyes and that was enough. How many of Ronon's nightmares were of those who had perished in front of him? “Do you count how many you haven't?”

“What?”

“The ones you saved.” Because Sheppard had risked much time and time again. They all did. But good men only remembered their mistakes. “You've forgotten about those who lived?” Ronon accused. “The planets we've defended. Our people? They might get to grow old. Have families that have families. You're good with numbers. Figure it out.”

The silence that followed was the good kind and Ronon didn't mind it this time because there was a sweet ocean breeze and stupid pretty flowers next to him. Sheppard had that thinking look where he frowned a little and his eyes got larger as the things in his head started to click.

* * *

John's stomach was a growing pit of dread as he counted the hours until radio contact with the Daedalus was reestablished. Keller was not happy about his barely eaten breakfast and threatened him with the IV when lunch went mainly untouched. He blamed having a clock with its constant reminder of time, and yes, he got word to Zelenka to come visit him, only to use all his charm and persuasion for getting a radio to monitor communications. Of course, obsessing over the fact that the Daedalus was overdue led to noticeable elevations in his vitals based on the two worried faces of the nurses who checked on him.

He knew he was in trouble when Keller walked in, his reflexes too slow to hide the com under his pillow.

“Hand over the radio, Colonel.” As if to prove a point, she waltzed over to the IV stand in the corner and uncoiled the tubing. “Stressing out about the mission is affecting your appetite.”

John reached for the plate of abandoned baked chicken and rice, began picking at the side salad.

Keller held open her palm. “And the radio?”

Reluctantly, he handed over the com. “Not knowing what's going on is just as bad.”

“A mild sedative would take care of your anxiety.”

All his good humor evaporated and John caught her with a steel glare. “A quarter of our military force is on a mission that could become real bad, really damn fast. The Saurin are not the Wraith, or the Replicators. They're an unknown factor and dealing with an enemy blind is dangerous. I need to be on top of things.”

“I sympathize. But you're not Colonel Sheppard, military commander of Atlantis. You're John Sheppard, a patient under my care. And that means you follow my rules.”

“Then when can I be discharged?” John wasn't giving up that easily.

“In a few days.” 

“I'm tube free. I take all my meds, and up until today, I've eaten everything you've put in front of me. I can do that in my quarters.”

“I'm the physician, John. I don't tell you how to lead your team in the field. Look,” she sighed. “I'm not trying to be a bad guy. You had major surgery last week. In your normal healthy condition I would have discharged you in less time. But you lost thirty-five pounds on a diet of rats and insects.”

“We didn't eat rats.” John watched Keller mentally count to ten. “Our supplies got better.”

“That's why you maintained some of your muscle tone. Look, nutritional problems aside, your body took a real beating. Literally. Things have a cumulative effect. You need rest and monitoring. I can't allow you to overdo it. Your immune system is very susceptible to illness and if you get too stressed out, it could turn into a major setback.”

“I got you, Doc,” John admitted, sinking into his bed. 

Keller fussed with his sheets. “I'm sorry, John. But if it’s any consolation, it's good to see some of that old fight in you again.”

He was going to say thanks, but the approaching clacking noise could only be Ronon, and the big guy was huffing by the time he reached John's bed.

“Here, sit down,” Keller offered, hastily pulling out of chair.

Ronon was too riled up to sit down. “Lorne just radioed. They've returned from the planet.”

John was pulling away the sheets Keller had smoothed out seconds earlier, pausing long enough to give her a beseeching look. 

“They have to come here for post-mission checkups,” she countered. “You don't need to go anywhere.”

* * *

Ronon sat on one of the exam beds, Sheppard in one of the waiting room chairs as dust-covered teams entered one by one. Most of the Marines were in one piece with various cuts and bruises. None of the medical staff was running around, but his heart pounded less when Teyla, McKay and Lorne shuffled in, exhausted but unharmed. Instead of submitting to checkups, they headed towards them to the irritation of the medical staff.

“I can't believe you guys lived there. Do you know hot it was? Of course you do, because, well, you spent all your time in a cave. But, seriously. It was fifty-seven out there. One thirty-five for those who can't convert to Fahrenheit.” McKay snatched two ice packs from a nurse walking by and shoved both onto the sides of his face, which thankfully stopped him from talking, except when he slid one off. “Does anyone have any water?” 

“Perhaps Jennifer could start an IV,” Teyla suggested calmly to McKay's horror. 

Lorne sat heavily on the exam bed between Ronon and Sheppard, his complexion a scary shade of red and all his hair matted to his forehead. “That place kind of sucked, sir.”

“It was no picnic,” Sheppard answered. “How'd it go?”

Ronon had a strange desire to snag Lorne's canteen from him when he started drinking. “Phase one was a success. There were no run-ins with any Saurin ships and once we got the population under control, they were all too eager to listen to our offer.”

“That simple?” 

Lorne laughed. “No, sir. But that's the Reader's Digest version. We had to demonstrate who was in charge a few times.”

“I'm deaf in one ear because of a bunch of trigger-happy Marines,” McKay complained.

“They mainly fired in the air,” Teyla quickly added.

Ronon didn't really care about any of that. “Did you move them all to the new alpha site?”

“Three hundred and seventy-six.” Lorne capped his canteen. “There was some resistance, but we have the rowdier prisoners under heavy guard and made sure to separate the gangs in opposite areas of the camps. We didn't encounter the Shan'ka. Woolsey wants us to try to contact them, but not until we finish our first set of interviews.”

Ronon's palms started to sweat; the Jad were in custody. He didn't care about the rest, not really. Lorne discussed the SOP being implemented at the alpha site and security precautions for the medical staff needed to take care of the refugees. He filtered out the clutter from the important stuff. 

“Did you do a full sweep of the planet?”

Sheppard had been strangely quiet, his mask in place as he listened to the debriefing. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you find a woman by chance? In the Void?”

“There were no female prisoners, sir.”

Ronon had forgotten about the girl. 

They could never save everyone. That's why it hurt. 

“You really named it the Void?” 

“That's what it was called it, Rodney.”

“Stupid name.”

“What was it?” Ronon had always wanted.

“The Void?” McKay moved the icepack to the back of his neck. “The Void was the shadow of a moon. One in a very low decaying orbit mine you.” 

“Okay,” Ronon replied with a blank look.

“It's called tidal locking,” Sheppard mentioned.

“Give the man a Kewpie doll,” McKay snarked.

Ronon looked from McKay to Sheppard, having no idea what either of them was talking about. 

“Sometimes a smaller object can get caught in the drag of a larger one,” Sheppard explained.

“Exactly. The planet is the primary body and it's stronger gravity slowed the moon 's spinning, presenting the same face to the planet at all times, blocking the sun and creating your Void.”

Ronon scratched his chin. “So, the Void was...”

“The shadow of the moon,” McKay finished for him. “Creating a constant type of nightfall.” 

“Okay, that explains the Void. But the sun never went down,” Sheppard pointed out. “Why?”

McKay clapped his hands in excitement, bouncing on his heels. “That is the million dollar question, isn't it.” Giddy with enthusiasm, he practically vibrated. “While the moon was tidal locked with the planet---the planet was tidal locked with the sun! What are the odds of that! There was a single spot about four hundred miles wide on the light side of the planet casting a thin border area around and inside the Void and creating the only habitable area. If you call living in a broiler habitable.”

_“Even before the Great Extermination, I only went north of the compound once. And you don't go through the Void, it gets too cold. You go around the edges.”_

Malvick had been telling the truth. 

“And the rest of the light side?” Ronon wondered.

McKay snorted. “Death in under an hour, give or take. The planet's core temp is hotter than Earth's and the only real source of water is in the Void.” McKay rolled his eyes using the word. “Cooler temperatures and the height of the mountains were enough to draw moisture down to create rainfall. I supposed a few inches or so feed the border area for whatever super strong plant life was able to adapt to the environment.”

“Then why didn't the Saurin build their base in the dark side of the planet?” Ronon wondered.

McKay was still beaming. “Even with a hotter core, the dark side doesn't see sunlight. It was too cold. Temps measured a hundred below zero.” 

“Perfect place to put a secret base,” Lorne commented. “Millions of square miles of desert and under the moon's shadow, a livable, hidden area.”

“The Wraith would not go to a dead planet,” Teyla agreed.

“Perfect place to build Mengele's lab,” Sheppard groused. “I'm glad they burned it all down.”

“You kidding me? That old city is probably a treasure trove. All that technology, all that....”

“Yeah, Rodney. I'm glad they did,” Sheppard growled. “Too bad the Saurin escaped the first time.”

* * *

John was livid. Because he was a hypocrite, wasn't he? The whole Michael debacle was the result of their own foray in biological warfare to defeat the Wraith. John laughed, bending his broken fingers, allowing the pain to build between the damaged joints. Funny how motivations became excusable justifications. How many worlds had paid the price for their mistakes? 

But they never tested anything on their own people. That was good enough, right? In the past there'd been Hitler and his cronies, and the Air Force didn't have the cleanest history when it came to experimenting on test pilots. Lines and crossed lines.

John remembered the pods, hundreds, maybe thousands of them. And the Saurin had been working toward perfection for how many years?

The desert and the Void were graveyards, sand and ash concealing the dead, their self-appointed guardians the only ones who knew the true numbers. They were gearing up for a fight with one group for their potential threat while he'd allowed one individual to walk through the gate, knowing exactly what crimes he'd committed. 

Ronon was there visiting, slouched in one chair with a pad of paper on one knee, his cast propped on John's bed after having dropped off Lorne's latest report that John wasn't supposed to have. 

“Do you regret what we did at the end of everything?” he asked.

“Regret what?”

“Malvick.”

Ronon ceased his doodling, rolling his pencil between his fingers. “I'm glad he was there.”

“Because he helped save us?” 

With a glance at his sketch, Ronon shook his head. “Because he showed us a future.”

_A future them._ John had started down that path. He remembered the balick matches, the water tanks. The smell of blood, the thrumming in his ears, the cold numbness in his veins. He'd ignored the weak. Allowed himself to become something he didn't recognize.

_Malvick got into John’s face, slowly, methodically, practically breathing his air. “The man’s a cold blooded killer. Are you?” He took a long sniff around John‘s face, pressing a finger to John‘s lips, silencing his reply. “That‘s for you to figure out.”_

John's hand pulsed with pain and he stared at where he tried to make a fist despite the plaster.

Ronon stared back at his drawing, his pencil still. “Doing that hurt?”

John shook his fingers, embarrassed. 

“You don't have to test yourself anymore,” Ronon commented.

Maybe. Maybe not. 

“What about you?” John deflected. 

_“What about me?”_

Two could play this game. “Still planning on killing Ziffka?”

Ronon growled, slapping his sketchbook closed and hobbled toward his crutches. “We all have things we need to do.”

“A friend of mine told me once to leave things behind. To move forward.” John grabbed a magazine from a stack on his table. “Think that was good advice?”

“I don't know. Did he listen to it?”

* * *

John's release was a quiet one, with Teyla walking with him toward his quarters. She carried all his meds and care sheet instructions, and he focused on taking one step at a time, trying to shake the feeling of his boots digging into sand.

She stood inside his doorway, watching him dump all his stuff on his nightstand. “I would ask if you wanted company, but I believe you would like to be alone.”

His spartan room had never seemed so empty. “Actually, would you like to stay and watch a   
movie?”

“Perhaps we could invite Ronon and Rodney as well?”

By the time John was settled on his tiny bed, Ronon pulled over a chair and sprawled into it, his casted leg propped up on the edge of John's mattress. 

“I hope you realize the precious time I'm losing by hanging around to watch...what are we watching?” McKay groused, searching for a place to sit and taking the office chair from John's desk and sitting in it. “Oh for heaven's sake, do you know what this will do to my back?”

John grabbed an extra pillow. “Get up for a second.”

“What? Why?” 

But Rodney stood and John laid the pillow sideways against the wall and the chair. “There.”

Grumbling, Rodney sat back down, his body slipping sideways with the cushion, until he bumped John's shoulders. “Yeah, that helps,” he said sarcastically. 

Somehow, Teyla managed the impossible, finding a sliver of bed and settling next to John and where Ronon lounged on the chair, her body snug between them. “What are we watching?” she inquired.

_“Star Wars,”_ John smiled, booting up the movie on his laptop.

No one complained---out loud.

He'd seen it a million times. Had the words memorized. 

It hurt oddly when Luke left the ashes of his life behind to set off to find his destiny.

He laughed harder at C3PO's obnoxiousness throughout the whole flick and he grinned wider when Han and Chewbacca argued. 

But it was the scene after the mission to destroy the Death Star, when Han and Luke whooped and hollered and Leia, Chewy and C3P0 were all swept into the celebration. There was this familiar feeling of triumph over impossible odds and the realization that everyone was alive and whole and together. 

It was corny. Silly. 

It made him smile. 

The edge of Rodney's shoulder dug into John's arm and Teyla was squished up along his other side. The edge of Ronon's foot rested by John's leg and for the first time in freaking forever, John felt surrounded by a steady, encompassing warmth. It was solid. Secure.

It was the feeling of being wanted.

Of being human.

John's eyes slowly welled up no matter how much he tried to stop them; a slow trickle of moisture ran down his face. He quickly wiped at it, but there was no hiding the next trail, his body shaking with pent up emotion. 

Closing his eyes to conceal his embarrassment, a set of slender arms slipped around his neck and held onto him, not too hard, not to soft. 

Tentative fingers dug into his left shoulder and gave it an awkward steady squeeze. 

A larger, stronger hand took his other shoulder and dreads brushed the side of his head when a forehead was pressed against the side of his temple. 

And John let it out, his face slick with wetness, his body trembling, but that feeling of being wanted. Of being loved, grew. He felt moisture on his cheek that didn't belong to him and he reached out and took Ronon's hand with his busted fingers and squeezed them. 

This was the reason for surviving that Hell-hole. Right here. Right now.

* * *

Movie night left John with a slight feeling of hope and a reminder of who he was and what he could be again one day. It a first step out of the dark abyss he'd found himself lost in as he still stumbled around trying to find a way out. Having an objective focused John's thoughts. Eating was a goal, filling his stomach, building back muscle. Walking down the halls and walking further the next day. The gym was off-limits, but going outside was encouraged; blue skies and endless miles of ocean offered his mind an escape from the four walls of his quarters.

Changing in and out of clothes was easier. The puffy pink incision mark down his middle still hurt, but the bruises were mostly gone except for lingering shades of faded yellow. His ribs ached and he had to be careful with bending and turning as he pulled on his black t-shirt. He was going out to the east pier today to watch the waves lap the city when the door chimed.

The door swooshed open and Lorne didn't waste time launching into his reason for visiting. “There was an incident at the camp. A fight broke out and about dozen refugees are dead. I wanted you to hear about it from me instead of second hand.”

“Our casualties?”

“Nothing serious, a fractured arm and mostly bruises. Captain Morris was stabbed by a shiv sharpened out of a spoon, but all the fatalities were refugees.”

John grimaced. He had a hard time associating the prisoners with that word. “Gang activity?” 

“Yes, sir. We're still trying to determine the cause. A group of Jad slipped into the Spraza camp with homemade knives. The leader, Ziffka, was killed, along with several of his right hand men.”

John's voice was easygoing as he casually leaned on the doorjamb without any outward show of emotion at the news. “Thanks for the report, Major.” 

“Knew you wanted to be in the loop. Can't say I'm too broken up about it.”

John looked his XO right in the eyes. “I'll assume that the proper amount of force was used in his case?”

Lorne's spine went ramrod stiff. “Yes, sir. It's all in the report I forwarded to you. Since then, we've doubled the patrols, turned the camp upside down, and added precautions to prevent any further violence.”

“Plastic silverware?” John deadpanned.

“Yes, sir. Not sure what we can do about the tension between gangs. Doctor Flores suggested integrating them slowly in group work projects.” 

Lorne was as thrilled with the idea as John given the doubt in his weary features, but the city psychologist came from the military and that gave all his suggestions more weight. John respected psychology; shrinks asked the questions most people tried to avoid answering. The problem was that John knew this better than anyone. 

But Flores didn't know what it was like to have a layer of yourself peeled away day after day. 

Lorne cleared his throat. “Sir?” 

John had zoned off again. “I'm not sure the group work is a good idea, yet.”

“Woolsey wants to give it a try. They don't have supplies to fight over anymore. Maybe it just takes acclimation.”

“Maybe,” John echoed without enthusiasm.

* * *

John read daily briefings on the refugee camp and its mounting pile of incident reports. An attempted raid on the kitchen and the theft of seed supplies and gardening tools. Fights that broke out standing in line at the temporary mess hall. Report after report of unrest and paranoia. 

He rubbed at his eyes and closed out the screen as Rodney plopped down in the chair next to him, bits of muffin stuck to his chin. “You supposed to be looking at those?”

“At what?”

“Please. I doubt that was the latest online issue of the _Green Lantern_ ,” Rodney snorted, unpacking his lunch.

John lounged back in his chair, the sun skirting across the horizon. “You brown bagging it now?” 

“Since you made a campsite out here and refuse to go down to the mess hall for lunch. Yes.”

That wasn't true. John found the view from here more majestic. Besides, it beat all the curious stares and well-wishes. “It's one table, a couple of chairs.” 

Rodney pulled out a ham sandwich, a cup of blueberry yogurt, and an apple and piled it in front of him. “Your feast. All I get is leftover garlic pasta.” Unwrapping the plastic off his paper plate, he grabbed a plastic fork and chowed down, having enough breath to order, “Eat.”

“I don't know. Looks like you had a snack on the way over here.”

Brushing away the crumbs, Rodney humphed indignantly and pointed his fork at the laptop. “You read Doctor Sato's report about the hygiene problem?”

Only Rodney would reprimand John for reading reports then try discussing them. “Hadn't gotten to that one.”

“They won't take showers.”

“Who?”

“The refugees.”

John took a giant bite out of his apple, the juice and cascade of sweetness a shock to his palate, and nearly spat it out. Covering up with a cough and avoiding Rodney's unnecessary pat to the back, he forced himself to chew and swallow it. 

“Besides almost choking, have you been paying attention to me?”

His skin was soft and smooth and John traced his veins from his wrist to the crook of his elbow. “They see it as a waste of water.”

“Yes, yes, I get that. But we've gone through great lengths to show them how it's sanitized and recycled.”

The pulse point beneath John's finger doubled and a rush of nausea threatened a reappearance of the apple. 

“Oh, God. What's wrong? I'll call Jennifer.”

“Don't!” John snapped. “Just....wait.” He felt it, the tiny scar from the cauterization, heard the sound of his blood filling the bag.

Rodney grabbed John's trembling shoulders. “What is it?” 

“I think...” John sat up, deeply breathing the ocean air. “I think discussing the idea of recycling might be problematic.”

“What?”

_You don't know_ , John screamed in his head, but he never wanted them to find out. “I'll talk to Sato. Maybe a river might be an easier transition.”

Rodney still held onto to John's shoulders and he looked from his hands to John's odd expression and gave him a manly pat, covering the act of compassion with a snarky remark. “Yeah, a river's sanitary.”

“Ever been in a military shower? The stalls are small and they--” John's belly churned unhappily. He knew why the prisoners were revolting against using them. “The Shan'ka used very similar methods to harvest water from human tissue.”

Rodney's eyes went from confused to horrified, pushing the last half of his pasta aside. “Right. I guess old habits are hard to break.”

That's what scared John the most, sitting out here with nothing but time and an imaginary roll of pennies for his thoughts. “Tell me about your latest theory on negative energy and vacuum space.”

“Which one?” Rodney smiled and pulled out a slice of cherry pie, shoving it front of him. “Jennifer says I should cut out some of my sugar.”

John actually matched his friend's smile.

* * *

Ronon was waiting outside his door, slightly surprised when it opened, straightening the best he could with his crutches. “Hey.”

“Hey,” John shot back. “Guess you heard.”

Ronon didn't shrug, but his words dripped with indifference. “Six more prisoners are dead.”

John didn't need a report to guess the Spraza had sought a reprisal. “It's hard adjusting to new circumstances.”

“When I came to Atlantis, I slept on the floor for months before I was comfortable in a bed.”

John wasn't surprised by Ronon's confession; they both slept with a weapon in reach. “But you sleep in one now.”

“Because I had support.”

Moving people’s locations changed physical boundaries, but not the instincts for survival. Being given a roadmap out of hell didn't mean people could follow it out without help.

Pulling out a PDA, he opened up his newest e-mail. “I asked Lorne for a list of all our guests on the planet and found a very interesting name there.” Knowing he had Ronon's attention he offered a wan smile. “I say we check out the status of our refugees.”

* * *

Four weeks after escaping hell on earth, John stood outside the stargate with his team, surveying men busy building fences and plowing fields for the long haul of a more permanent settlement. Ronon carefully descended the steps and stood next to him. “Odd not to see them in desert gear.”

“Nice to see them working together,” John replied. He counted their numbers, allowing himself to see the generations that might spring forward once they found new homes.

“Huh,” Rodney commented. “This doesn't feel like déjà vu to anyone else?”

“These people are not Wraith hybrids,” Teyla responded, but her tone was weary.

The similarities were not lost on John and he and Ronon shared a knowing expression. 

John was in BDUs with a set of familiar aviators shading his eyes. Although he wasn't kitted up with a tac vest, it felt good to be somewhat in uniform. He wasn't on duty and it would be a week before his next physical, but it felt normal to be off-world so to speak.

Ronon dug his crutch into the ground and the two of them stood to one side. “Think they were all political prisoners?” 

“No.” John didn't need to think twice. “But some.” Hemma and Juka perhaps. The scarecrow. All those who hadn't joined gangs and maybe those who did. “I think they were at first.”

Then the desert took over. 

“What were we?” John spoke out loud. “Criminals or political refugees?”

“We were _all_ prisoners,” was Ronon's quick reply. 

John surveyed the sprawling settlement. “Adapt and survive.” It was life's lesson. A very ugly one.

Lorne jogged over and saluted. “Sorry for being late, sir. We had another altercation in the west camp. Seems the Jad aren't comfortable with the power vacuum resulting from actually having plenty of resources. One of our patrols was attacked, but we subdued those responsible.”

“Are you kidding me?” Rodney waved a hand at the tent city. “We took them from Planet Death Desert and settled them on the equivalent of a boy scout picnic area, complete with trees and rivers. Oh, with plenty of food, water and medicine and they're still fighting? What for?”

“Because they know nothing else,” Ronon answered. 

“Not all of them.” John removed his glasses, stuffing them into a pocket. “About sixty have been interviewed already and transferred to other planets. Some are still receiving medical care. A couple dozen have started giving us valuable intel. It's the other two hundred we need to reach.”

Lorne nodded in agreement. “Each day builds new trust. They're not captives, but they have nowhere else to go yet. A few have even come around to give us valuable intel and are more than happy to see things through to a resolution.”

“And the rest?” Rodney prompted.

“Violent prisoners are under guard in a separate area and the rest… Well, as the colonel said, we just have to show them we're not the bad guys.”

“That's what we're here for.” John gestured at the center green floppy tent. “Is he in there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perhaps Rodney and I will tour part of the camp,” Teyla suggested, grabbing Rodney's arm before he protested.

John appreciated her gesture of privacy and he and Ronon walked and toward the tent and pulled away the flap. A man dressed in gray fatigues, slowly rose from his seat. “Why am I not surprised to see you here?” Lyle greeted. 

“Decided to drop by and see how you were doing.”

Lyle snorted. “I hear you're in charge of all this,” he said, waving a hand about. “Seems my instincts were right about you.”

John allowed a genuine grin. “And my sources inform me that you were more than just a merchant.”

Lyle's blue eyes twinkled. “Our pasts were meaningless, were they not? But now, now they shall meet.”

“Minister of Commerce of your world; doesn't seem like you branched out too far from comfort.”

“The same could be said about you, Colonel Sheppard.” Lyle smiled. “We have much to discuss, but first things first.” Digging in the pocket of the new pants he wore, he pulled out a tiny vial. “I do believe this belongs to you?”

It was the deed to his life. John took the vial of his saliva, mouth going dry. “You never tried to cash it in.” 

“You were a hard man to find to do that.” But Lyle eyes' betrayed his words. He chuckled. “You were always trying to grab stuff out of reach. Maybe it was because you knew how to search for things those others didn't see.”

John gave a sideways glance at Ronon. “No, it's because I had other people to back me up.” 

“Hmm, maybe I was wrong about loyalty. Never thought it'd ever triumph after many defeats.”

“I'm sorry you never experienced what it truly felt like,” John replied.

Lyle stood proudly, posture a perfect straight line. “There's always time to rebuild. Maybe together we'll make up for our transgressions.”

Clutching the vial in his good hand, John slipped it in a vest pocket, reclaiming a tiny part of himself. “Rebuilding would be a nice change of pace,” he admitted. It wouldn't make up for his mistakes, but just maybe, it'd allow him a chance to try. 

It'd be a start in the right direction.

* * *

Ronon sat in a worn leather chair, right arm propped up on a small side table. Sergeant Hector Garza finished shaving Ronon's bicep of hair and sprayed a liquid mist before applying the stencil.

“We'll do the outline today. I have to inventory all the small arms in the armory at 2200,” Garza said, peeling away the stencil.

Staring at the blueish transfer of his new tattoo, Ronon nodded. “That's cool.”

Garza was a burly guy, bigger and taller than Ronon, both arms covered with ink. Of course half of the Marines had more muscle than he did, but that was improving day by day. Garza filled the ink caps, pulling tubes and needles from their sterile packaging. “So, what did you call this design again?”

“It doesn't have a name.”

“The right symbol's for friendship. Left's for service. And the middle one's for--

“Loyalty.” Ronon stared at the art work. “It's called the _quilo.”_

Garza gave a grunt of approval. “Most people get stupid shit. A tat is a spiritual thing. It symbolizes our devotions and self identity.”

Ronon traced the imprint's edges. “Wasn't sure I deserved to wear it.”

“But now?”

Head held high, Ronon looked up at artist. “I earned it. It's who I am. As long as I keep fighting for it.”

* * *

His door chimed and he hobbled over to open it, allowing Teyla inside as she carried a huge cardboard box. “Where would you like this?”

“Oh, um..” Ronon pointed to his desk. “Here's fine.”

Putting the box down, Teyla unloaded pencils, brushes, and oil paints. “Major Lorne has some spare canvas.”

“I have a few pieces, just not enough of anything else.” Ronon studied the supplies. It'd been a long time since he'd felt creative. “Thank you for hunting all this down.”

“I am glad you're indulging your creative side during your convalescence,” she smiled.

Picking up one of the brushes, he twirled it between his fingers. Like knives, the best ones were light and made of the finest materials. Testing the bristles, he admired the quality of the animal hair. Someone loved this brush.

“It's been a long time,” he admitted.

“Perhaps this is an opportunity to reacquaint yourself again with something you used to enjoy.”

Something he'd given up. 

Teyla picked up one of his drawing pads, her eyes wide. “This is beautiful. When did you sketch it?”

Embarrassed, Ronon snatched the pad, closing it. “Couple of weeks ago when we were playing Monopoly while Sheppard was still in the infirmary.”

“You mean when you got angry that Rodney owned all the utility companies and donated your properties to me and John.” 

“Yeah, well. Everyone was together and I thought I'd like to have something of all of us besides what's in my head.” Art was more than preservation, he learned. It was a celebration of life.

She pulled the sketchpad out of his hand and opened it to the drawing of the four of them sitting around a table laughing instead of around John's bed. “This is wonderful work. You should not hide it.”

“It's not bad,” Ronon conceded.

He thought maybe though, his mother would have been proud.

* * *

He was down to a walking cast, having broken his crutches too many times, and headed to the most isolated pier of the city. He was a month away from active duty after being cleared by the shrink this week. Anger issues were nothing new and answering all questions had been the most direct route of moving on. He was honest and to the point in all his sessions, much to the relief of the doc. It wasn't going to fix his problems, Ronon had a lot, this was just a new collection and he pushed forward, tying to get by the best he could. 

Night descended on the city; millions of tiny twinkling lights blinked in the black canvas above. Stars. He would never get tired of their presence overhead, taking comfort in their company, always running toward them in his dreams. It was no surprise to find Sheppard lying flat on his back staring up at the sky. 

“Hey.”

John rested his head behind his crossed hands, making Ronon wonder how that was comfortable with the cast. 

“Rodney says there should be a meteor shower tonight.”

Ronon slowly hobbled over, spreading out on the grass, taking in the brilliant light before him. “Cool.”

“Used to do his as a kid, go on out on the lawn, wondering how old the stars were, knowing by the time the light reached us, the stars might not be up there anymore.”

Ronon settled himself next to Sheppard. “I'd wonder what other worlds were like out there. If there was a single one without the Wraith. Most of the time, I just wanted to touch them.” Letting his eyes stray over, Ronon did a double take. “You shaved.”

Sheppard rubbed his hand over his clean face. “Thought it was time.”

“And?”

“I knew who was staring back at me in the mirror. I just have to learn to accept him....maybe one day I will.” 

Ronon grabbed Sheppard by the shoulder. “I know who you are. Wouldn't have your back if I wasn't willing to follow you anywhere. Includes the dark places.” Sheppard squirmed, but not that much. 

Sliding his hand away, Ronon adjusted his leg into a comfortable position, letting the grass tickle his cheeks.

“Rodney was able to get a little more info off one of the data chips,” Sheppard spoke. “According to logs, the Shan'ka have very long life-spans as a result of the experiments done on them. The Saurin were forced out a couple hundred years ago.”

“How? They weren't Wraith. They didn't feed.”

“Rodney's vowing to find out. It'd explain what Dumma said about them trying to make up for so much lost research. Thank goodness.”

Ronon stared up at the stars. “Malvick mentioned he didn't have all the traits of the Shan'ka. He chose to live in the Void because he had nowhere else to go. That's a long time for hatred to fester.”

“What he did....” Sheppard's words trailed off.

How many had Malvick killed? How long had it taken to rob him of his soul? 

Ronon didn't want to know. “They discover anything else?”

Sheppard plucked at the grass. “Not yet. Apparently the IOA wants to know what their hyper-drive capabilities are since the prison planet was nowhere near the Saurin base. It took a few days to get there, so we're hoping its only at Wraith standards.”

There were too many unanswered questions. All Ronon wanted was a direction to follow. 

“So,” Sheppard broke the silence, fumbling for words. “I have something for you.” Ronon propped himself on his elbows as Sheppard pulled an object from his belt. “Wasn't sure if I was going to run into you today, kind of kept it on me out of habit.” He handed Ronon a knife. “This belongs to you. Lorne found it on Ziffka's body.”

Ronon recognized the very blade that had kept them both alive. “I can't.”

“It's not mine.”

It didn't belong to Ronon. “You earned it.”

“Yes, and according to Satedan tradition, I am bestowing a symbol of battle to my closest ally and kin.”

“You remembered those stories?” Ronon had recited many important oaths and legends from his culture. He never thought Sheppard had listened.

Sheppard pushed the knife into Ronon's palm. “In the bleakest times, when I lost myself, your words were all I had. Even if I didn't understand them at the time, they found a way to filter through all the other crap.”

Ronon wasn't sure if he deserved such an honor. 

“Are you turning away my offer?”

That was the greatest of insults. Sheppard was playing dirty. “I didn't do much.”

“You followed me into the desert. Saved my ass and kept me alive in the Void. I think that's another Satedan custom, but there were so many.” Sheppard was smirking now, but it was another mask and Ronon could read the bold honesty in his eyes. “Those days in the cave...I'm not sure what would have happened. You know?”

Ronon accepted the knife. He did _know_ deep inside, even with Sheppard's bad communication skills. It was one of many things they had in common. It was fine. They made up for it.

Relaxing against the ground, he traced designs in the sky. “Think we'll attack the Saurin soon?”

“Don't know. Lyle's helped calm things with the pri---among the refugees. More people are sharing with us, but we have a while to go. IOA's still studying our most recent data. Could be months before they reach a decision.”

“As long as I get a crack at them.”

“I think there'll be a long line.”

“Won't keep me from breaking in front.” Ronon lifted his leg, counting the days until the cast came off. “How's the hand?”

The moonlight reflected off of Sheppard's face, twinkling in the sparkle of his eyes. “Doc doesn't think there'll be any permanent damage based on the scans. Only time will tell. I can go back on active duty if I complete a physical and finish my sessions with Flores. Then I have to pass the psych exam.” Looking off in the distance he let out a breath. “The last one will take longer. I'm aware of that. Even then, well...”

“You'll get there.”

“In time.” John played with the grass. “I need to work.” 

“Good, because you still owe me beer and a banto's match.” Ronon studied the skies, sketching out the idea for a new painting. The first new one since he joined the military on Sateda. If he squinted hard enough, he saw his mother smiling back at him. “I wanted to be the one who killed Ziffka.”

“Now?”

“There are enough bad guys. Each one I kill means there'll be fewer out there.” Twin moons rose out of the horizon and Ronon propped himself on his elbows to gaze at them in appreciation. He glanced over at Sheppard, his mouth open in a smile, taking years off his face. “What are you thinking?”

John's answer was genuine. “I'm counting all the stars out there. Wondering what they'd be like if we'd never visited them.”

“And?” Ronon prodded, relaxing into the grass.

“We'll never know, but it shouldn’t stop us from reaching out and trying to help whenever we can.”

* * *

\--fini


End file.
